As 


ATALANTIS; 


A  STORY  OF  THE   SEA 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF 

THE  YEMASSEE,"  "GUY  RIVERS,"  &c. 


"  'Tis  not  vain  or  fabulous, — 
Though  so  esteem'd  by  shallow  ignorance,— 
What  the  sage  Poets,  taught  by  th'  heavenly  Muse. 
Story'd  of  old  in  high  immortal  verse, 
Of  dire  chimeras  and  enchanted  isles, 
And  rifted  rocks."  MILTON. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
CAREY    AND     HART 

1848. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1848,  by 

W.    GILMORE   SIMMS, 

•In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  of  South- Carolina. 


S  S 

otcu 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


THE  first  edition  of  "Atalantis"  was  published  in  1832.  It  has 
been  subsequently  revised,  and,  I  trust,  amended.  I  am  not  satis 
fied  that  the  dramatic  form  was  appropriately  adopted,  since  it  leads 
to  expectations  which  the  character  of  the  poem  will  scarcely  satisfy. 
The  advantage  of  the  dialogue  consists  simply  in  permitting  that 
diversification  of  the  descriptive  portions,  which,  in  a  work  so 
purely  fanciful,  would  seem  necessary  to  prevent  monotony. — This 
poem,  with  those  pieces  which  follow  it,  belongs  to  a  class,  the 
standards  of  which  are  almost  entirely  imaginative.  The  reader 
who  looks,  here,  for  the  merely  human  sentiment,  will  find  himself 
at  fault.  The  province  of  poetry  is  too  various  for  the  application 
ot  laws  derived  wholly  from  individual  tastes ;  and  he  who  opens 
the  pages  of  an  author  must  always  be  prepared  to  ascend  that 
mount  of  vision  from  which  he  has  made  his  survey.  The  highest 
regions  of  the  ideal,  are  unquestionably  such  as  belong  to  the  spi 
ritual  nature.  To  this  nature,  exclusively,  verse  which  is  solely 
imaginative  must  commend  itself.  It  is  not  the  less  human,  though 
it  may  be  more  remote  and  foreign,  than  that  which  simply  appeals 
to  mortal  passions,  and  the  more  earthy  purposes  of  man  and  life. 


MS03702 


• 


CONTENTS. 


PAOB, 

ATALANTIS— A  STORY  OF  THE  SEA, -.  jl. 

THE   EYE   AND    THE   WING 

1.  THE  BARD'S  IDEAL, 75 

2.  THE  BARD, v  78 

3.  IMMORTALITY, .87 

4.  IMAGINATION, 91 

5.  EGERIA, 97 

6.  ILENOVAR:  FROM  A  STORY  OF  PALENQUE,         ...  99 

7.  CLARICE, 106 

8.  SUMMER  WEST  WIND, 108 

9.  THE  KINGS  IN  SHEOL, 112 

10.  MONNA,    *>       .     £c,        .        .         .         .    •    .        .        .  114 

11.  UR-LIGHT, ".        .  117 

12.  THE  LONELY  ISLET,          . 119 

13.  SYBILLA,       .         .        .        ... 120 

14.  THE  BURDEN  OF  THE  DESERT.          .        .        ,        ..  -     .  123 

15.  "WHERE  BY  DARRO'S  EVENING  WATERS,"          .        .        .  125 

16.  SOUL-FLIGHT, '  ..       .        .        .  126 

17.  THE  CHILD-ANGEL,      .        .        .        .        ^       . '.4,..       .  128 

18.  NIAGARA,           :                         V        .        i*      .        .        .  129 

19.  REQUIEM — TWINNS  IN  DEATH, 132 


VI.  CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

20.  INFANCY  OF  AMBITION, 133 

21.  BALLAD — "  Her  eye  is  dim  with  many  tears.''    .        .        .  135 

22.  VISION — FROM  JOB, 136 

23.  ALF-SONG,    .        .      ,,    ;,,    ,.  A^  , 137 

24.  STANZAS, 138 

25.  THE  SPIRIT-LOVER—BALLAD, 139 

26.  FANCY, 140 

27.  BILLOWS, ;        .        .  141 

28.  GLEAMS— A  SONG,    .                141 

29.  MEMORY, 142 

30.  METEOR  AT  SEA— A  SONNET, 143 

31.  DREAMLAND, 143 

32.  SONNET — THE  FAIRY  RING, 144 


ATALANTIS 


PERSONS    OF    THE  POEM. 


ONESIMARCHUS,  a  King  of  Sea-Demons. 
COUNT  LEON,  a  noble  Spanish  Knight. 
MENDEZ  CELER,  Captain  of  the  Arragon. 
OGRE,  a  slave  of  Onesimarchus. 
Mariners^  Demons.  Sfc.  Sfc. 

ATALANTIS,  a  Princess  of  the  Nereids. 

NBA,  her  attendant. 

LADY  ISABEL,  sister  to  Count  Leon. 

ZEPHYR-SPIRIT. 
TININA,     1 

CARETA,  ! 

>  Fairies. 
NANITA,    | 

LOLINE,    J 

.  •  •'   • 

.:*     '• 


ATALANTIS. 


A   STORY   OF   THE    SEA. 

ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.— An  Islet  of  the  Atlantic  Ocean. 

ATALANTIS  and  ONESIMARCHTJS. 

Atal    Get  thee  hence,  monster,  I  defy  thee  now,, 
As  late  I  scorn'd  thee.    Thy  base  threats  are  vain, 
And  thy  words  idle.    All  in  vain  thy  pray'r, — 
And,  in  thy  promise,  do  I  nothing  see 
To  move  my  spirit ; — nothing  to  misguide 
My  firm  persuasion,  that,  so  foul  a  thing 
Should  have  no  thought  of  mine. 

Onesi.  I  prithee,  hold  ! 

Be  charier  of  thy  feelings  ; — have  a  care, 
If  thou  dost  love  thyself  and  wquld'st  be  free  ! 

eseems  thee  not  this  proud  authority 
In  such  condition  as  I  hold  thee  now. 
Look  round  thee,  lovely  Atalant ! — Survey 
My  wondrous  power,  and  heed  the  prison  house, 
Most  fit  for  thee  to  flutter  in, — not  fly ! 
Thou  art  my  captive,  maiden,  bound  by  spells, 
Potent  as  night,  that,  struggle  as  thou  may'st, 
Mock  thy  best  effort,  and  defy  thy  hopes. 

Atal.    Foul  tyrant,  I  despise  thee  and  thy  powery 
And  laugh  at  all  thy  threats.    I  know  thee  well, 
1 


2  ATALANTIS.  [ACT  I. 

Thy  strength,  thy  spells,  thy  hatefulness,  and  all, 
That  makes  thee  what  thou  art !  — 

Onesi.  Dost  know  thyself  1 

Atal    Ay,  my  own  weakness,  now,— yet  nothing  fear 
Thy  greater  strength  in  this  my  overthrow. 

Onesi.  Thou  fear'dst  not  this? 

Atal    I  did  not ;  yet  I  knew, 
Even  ere  the  moment  of  captivity, 
That  thou  had'st  power  for  this.    'Twas  in  my  scorn, — 
In  the  full  feeling  of  my  pride  and  strength, 
Mocking  thy  gross  dominion, — that  I  grew 
Improvident  of  caution. 

Onesi.  Yet,  beware  ! 

Lest  a  new  lesson  counsel  thee  to  fears 
Thy  scorn  believes  not  now. 

Atal  Oh  !  get  thee  hence  ! 

Think'st  thou  I  am  so  shallow,  not  to  know 
Thy  close  impassable  limit  1     Am  I  not, 
Thrice  guarded  in  myself,  with  power  mine  own, 
Match'd  unto  thine,  and  know  I  not  that  thou — 
Howe'er  in  captive  bound  thou  keep'st  me  now, 
Having  robb'd  me  of  the  wand  that  serves  my  will, 
By  a  foul  trickery  worthy  of  thyself, — 
Hast  not  the  might — unless  I  do  forget 
My  better  nature  and  give  way  to  thine — 
A  wretched  madness,  most  impossible  ! — 
To  graze  with  licensed  breath  the  idlest  hair, 
That  wantons  from  my  shoulder.     Get  thee  hence, — 
I  dread  thee  not,  thou  monstrous  impotence  ! 

Onesi.     Hold  !  or  thou  wilt  impel  me  unto  wrath, 
When  I  would  Jove  thee  I 

Atal  I  do  not  fear  thy  wrath, 

And  prat'st  thou  of  thy  love,  thou  crooked  game-make, 
Thou  gross  deformity  ! — how  I  could  laugh 
At  thy  rough  gambols  in  an  element 
Made  for  pure  spirits,  and  the  delicate  grace 
Of  the  angelic  youth  and  morning  beauty, — 
But  that  a  prison  laugh  is  seemly  sad, 
And  turns  into  a  sorrow. 


SCENE  I.]  ATALANTIS.  3 

Onesi.  So  shall  thine, 

If  thou  bethink  not  oft'ner  of  thy  bound  ! 
Thou  art  a  sprightly  and  most  pleasant  child, 
But  all  unlearn'd  by  crude  adversity, 
Else  would'st  thou  teach  thyself  another  mood, 
And  reason  in  the  guise  of  circumstance. 
Wert  thou  array'd  in  panoply  of  war, 
With  all  thy  armies  on  the  equal  field, 
Nought  wanting  to  thy  might,  thy  spoken  taunt 
Were  not  unseemly  ; — now,  it  hath  an  air 
That  ill  becomes  thy  lip  and  present  state. 

Atal    And  would'et  thou  teach,  O  !  rare  philosopher, 
The  prudence  of  compliance  with  the  law, 
Of  that  worst  fate,  a  base  necessity  1 
Why,  thou'dst  disfigure  truth,  and  all  distort 
The  fairer  argument  into  the  foul, 
Make  right  a  truckler  to  expediency 
And  conjure  virtue  with  the  spells  of  fear, 
Till  she  grows  common,  a  base  thing  of  time, 
Having  but  present  office.    Thou  hast  err'd, — 
For,  but  suppose  me  ignorant  of  good, 
Untutor'd  in  truth's  excellence,  and  all 
That  virtue  wills  to  beauty, — thee  I  know, 
And  know  to  hate  the  lesson  thou  would'st  teach. 

Onesi.    Thou'rt  rash,  fair  damsel,  rash  and  ill-advised  ! 
Beware  of  what  thou  say'st — to  prudence  hold  ; 
Remember,  when  thy  spirit  would  offend, 
Thou,  art  the  captive  to  my  greater  power. 

Atal.    Thy  greater  cunning — thy  dishonest  guile  ! 

Onesi.     And  that  is  greater  power,  thou  simple  child  ; — 
And,  as  thou  art  a  captive,  let  thy  speech 
Mate  with  thy  fortunes.    I  deny  thee  now 
A  farther  range  than  suits  my  jealous  mood  ; 
And  I  shall  guard  thee  well,  and  watch  thy  steps, 
And  check  thee  when  thou  trippest.    On  thy  paths, 
My  slaves,  that  never  close  the  eye,  attend, 
And,  though  thou  see'st  them  not 

Atal.  I  see  them  not ! — 

Thou  dost  forget  my  nature  and  my  power ; — 


4  ATALANTIS.  [ACT  I. 

Let  me  but  wave  my  hand  thus,  with  a  will ! — 
What  call  you  this  blear  imp  1 

She  waves  her  hand,  and  OGRE  becomes  visible. 

Onesl  Ha  !  thou  base  whelp ! 

Did  I  not  warn  thee  ?— wherefore  did'st  thou  lurk, 
Thus  nigh,  to  feel  her  spells  1 — but  thou  shalt  learn. 
Shall  I  not  have  obedience  where  I  rule  ? 
Ho  !  Runa  !  Merla  !  take  this  sodden  slave 
And  bind  him  to  his  pits  against  the  rock, 
Till  midnight — let  the  scourge  be  well  applied, 
While  his  shrieks  wake  the  drowsy  mariner, 
Filling  his  head  with  storms,  for  which  they  make 
Fit  music,  and  foretell ! 

Ogre.  Master,  O,  spare  ! 

The  day  grows  dark,  and  the  night  rushes  on, 
Long  ere  the  accustomed  hour.    The  cruel  scourge 
Will  torture,  and  the  wrath  upon  the  wave, 
Will  dash  me  into  madness  gainst  the  rocks. 

Onesi.  Take  him  hence  !  away  ! 

Ogre.    Nay,  spare  me, — 'twas  my  zeal 
To  serve  thee,  that  o'erstepped.    But  pardon  now, 
I  err  not  thus  again.    Be  pitiful ! 
Merla  doth  own  for  me  a  silent  grudge 
And  will  outstretch  thy  order.     He  will  bind 
Both  hands  and  feet,  and,  with  a  double  thong, 
Will  tear  my  flesh,  then  mock  me  with  keen  gibes, 
Until  I  faint,  while  the  cold  cavern  waves 
Do  creep  about  and  wrap  me  ! 

Onesi.  Not  in  vain  : 

Though  he  doth  punish  thee  as  thou  hast  said, 
Thou  shalt  not  perish.    Hence  with  him.    Ye  stand 
As  if  ye  did  delight  in  his  discourse, 
Insolent  with  himself. 

Atal.  Oh  !  thou  art  stern — 

A  tyrant  'gainst  all  nature,  that  will  spurn 
The  kneeling  wretch,  but  for  excess  of  zeal 
Doing  thy  bidding  truly. 


SCENE  I.]  ATALANTIS.  5 


Onesi.  'Tis  for  thee 

I  punish  him,  fair  Atalant. 

Atal  For  me ! 

Onesi.    Hath  he  not  hung  too  closely  on  thy  steps, 
Intrusive,  watching  thee  most  narrowly 
Beyond  my  will  1    Shalt  thou  not  be  secure 
From  what  offends  thee  1 

Atal    'Tis  thou  offend'st  me  ! 
Make  me  secure  from  thee,  and  'gainst  thy  slave 
I  shall  have  instant  remedy. 

Onesi.  Still  thus  ! 

Atal    Ay,  ever  ! — while  the  light  lasts  of  my  life, 
Thought,  feeling,  best  affection.     'Tis  for  me 
That  thou  wouldst  punish  him] — then  set  him  free  ; — 
The  wrong  that  he  has  done  is  done  to  me, 
And  I  forgive  it  him. 

Onesi.  It  fits  thee  well, 

This  ready  spirit  of  mercy  which  conceives, 
And  grants  the  boon  ere  spoken.     Not  so  me  ! 
'Twere  a  poor  state,  and  brief  the  power,  if  thus, 
O'erzealous  though  it  be,  each  slave  should  leap, 
His  bound  unchasten'd.     Hence  with  him,  away  ! 
The  scourge  shall  lessen  his  o'er-ready  zeal, 
And  midnight  seas,  and  colds,  and  biting  airs 
Shall  teach  him  penitence.  [Ogre  is  led  off* 

Atal.  Thou  cruel  king ! 

Hadst  thou  by  other  qualities  of  grace 
Master'd  the  heart  that  feels  for  thee  but  scorn, 
This  merciless  act  of  thine  had  set  it  free ; 
Had  robb'd  it  of  persuasion  of  thy  worth 
In  every  office  ;  and,  from  virtuous  meed, 
Had  pluck'd  all  fair  deserving,  that  had  else 
Been  yielded  by  just  tribute. 

Onesi.  Thou  wrong'st  me  ; — 

And  chid'st  too  harshly  the  o'ercoming  sway, 
Which  keeps  dominion  safe,  and  makes  it  strong. 
Would'st  thou  not  master  1     Is  the  woman  heart 
Unfriendly  to  the  pleasant  tastes  of  power  ? 
I  know  thee  better, — better  know  thy  sex — 
1* 


6  ATALANTIS.  [ACT  I 

Esteem  thee  as  the  rest, — born  with  the  love 
Of  measureless  rule, — the  will  to  reach  afar, 
Plucking  down  station,  putting  strength  aside, 
'Till,  in  the  midst,  alone,  o'er  all  thou  stand'st, 
All  fearing,  all  adoring  ! 

Atal.  How  tkou  soar'st ! 

And  this  thy  aim,  how  fruitlessly  thy  rule 
Is  wasted  on  the  wretched  slave  that  cowers, 
Hopeless  and  still  submissive,  to  his  lord. 
Onesimarchus,  I  despise  thee  more, 
That  I  have  seen  thee  in  the  wid'st  extent 
Of  thy  dominion. 

Onesi.    'Tis  well !     But  thou  shalt  feel, — 
So  shalt  thou  better  know, — how  great  the  power 
Thou  mock'st  at,  in  thy  ignorance  and  pride  ! 
And  though,  unless  by  wanton  will  of  thine, 
I  may  not  gain  pcssession  of  thy  form, 
Yet  shall  I  so  constrain  thee  by  my  arts, 
So  work  upon  thy  weakness — so  forbid 
All  bent  of  inclination, — all  desire, — 
Curtailing  every  thought  that  does  not  tend 
To  the  fierce  satisfaction  of  my  want, — 
That  thou  shalt  yield  thyself  in  very  dread, 
Though  thy  heart  loathe  me  in  its  secret  mood, 
And  every  sense  grow  outraged  at  the  fate 
To  which  thou  still  submit'st. 

Atal.  Oh !  shallow  slave  ! 

This  is  thy  precious  scheme  !     And  there  thou  stand'st, 
With  thy  red  gloating  eye  stretch'd  'yond  its  sphere, 
Glaring  with  foul  and  fiend-imaginings — 
Thy  lip,  that  quivers  with  voluptuous  rage, 
Thicken'd  with  vicious  fury, — thy  scant  brows, 
Retreating  wide  and  back,  with  wool  o'erhung, 
That  links  thee  with  the  sooty  African 
Who  wallows  in  thy  worship ; — there  thou  stand'st, 
Blinded  with  beastly  hope,  that  thou  can'st  will 
A  spirit  so  pure  as  mine  to  leave  its  sphere, 
And  come,  untended  and  unlighted,  down, 
From  its  bright  mansions,  to  thy  pool  and  cave  I 


SCENE  I.]  ATALANTIS.  7 

'Till  now,  my  thought  had  been  that,  with  thy  pow'r, 

There  was  a  sense  to  give  it  dignity, 

And  marshal  thy  gross  attributes  with  state 

Into  considerate  order.    But  not  now, — 

When  I  look  on  thee,  so  incapable, — 

So  wanting  in  that  art,  which,  when  it  lacks, 

Strength  is  a  toiling  giant  up  the  hills 

That  never  wins  the  summit — all  my  hate 

Subsides  into  a  feeling  less  than  scorn, 

Which  cannot  yet  be  pity.     Prithee,  go, — 

Thou  dost  but  move  me  to  unseemly  mirth, 

Which  yet  I  would  not. 

Onesi.    Nay  !  give  it  vent  and  words  ! 
Thy  wit  is  lively  ;  thou  hast  eloquence  ; 
I  feel  that  thou  might'st  chafe  me,  were  it  not 
That  there  will  be  a  season  too  for  me, 
When  I  may  answer  thee. 

Atal.  What  can'st  thou  more  1 

Thou  hast  done  all  in  stealing  me  away 
From  mine  own  kingdom  with  thy  felon  arts: 
And  this  shall  find  its  punishment  ere  long, 
For,  even  now,  in  Merge  van,  my  town, 
I  do,  by  precious  instincts,  see  the  array 
Of  thousands,  whom  my  brothers,  to  the  war, 
Will  haste  with  meet  decision.     Thou,  methinks, 
Hast  proved  their  arms  before  ; — a  little  while, 
The  proofs  shall  be  renewed, — and  what  shall  then 
Be  thy  fond  refuge,  when  their  mighty  powers 
Descend  on  thee  to  battle  1 

Onesi.  Let  them  come  ! 

I  shall  be  ready  then — am  ready  now  ! 
Thou  speak'st  with  a  rare  confidence,  but  know, 
I  took  thee  not,  thus  boldly,  from  thy  realms, 
'Till  I  had  meetly,  with  commissioned  force, 
Prepared  for  all  thy  battles.     Thou  forget'st 
The  strength  I  bring — the  powers  that,  in  a  trice, 
From  farthest  ocean  I  can  call  at  once, 
Where  the  deep  thickens  to  a  bed  of  reeds  ; 
And  from  the  kings  that  o'er  the  whirlpools  sway, 


8  ATALANTIS.  [ACT  I- 

Gathered  to  my  allegiance,  by  a  blast 

Upon  the  shell  I  bear  within  my  hand. 

Thou  seem'st  to  have  forgotten  too,  methinks, 

That,  by  my  single  arm,  thy  mother's  first, 

And  thy  own  brother,  fiercest  of  them  all, 

Fell,  like  an  infant,  impotent,  o'erthrown  ! 

What  though  I  lost  the  conflict,  did  ye  gain  7 

Was  not  your  city  of  the  rocks  destroy'd 

By  the  wild  waves,  which,  in  my  wanton  mood, 

O'erwent  and  left  them  prostrate  ; — while  thyself, 

An  infant  then,  rock'd  in  a  purple  shell, 

'Twixt  two  obedient  billows,  scarce  preserved, 

Wast  borne  away,  affrighted,  in  the  arms 

Of  thy  most  humble  follower.     This,  methinks, 

Thy  memory  lacks,  and  I  repeat  it  thee, 

Not  for  the  glory  of  mine  own  exploit, 

But  to  remind  me  of  the  groundless  hope 

On  which  thou  build'st  for  safety. 

Atal  It  is  well ! 

Thou  hast  chosen  for  thy  wooing  a  fit  style, 
And  most  judicious,  when  that  thou  relat'st 
Thy  bloody  traffic  with  myself  and  mine. 

Onesi.    Thyself  hast  moved  me  to  't. 

Atal.  I  blame  thee  not, 

Rude  monster,  for  the  evil  thou  hast  done, 
And  sought  beyond  thy  utmost  power  to  do  ! 
'Tis  in  thy  nature.    There  is  on  thy  front 
The  character  of  the  beast.     Thy  savage  eye, 
Fixed  in  thy  bloated  and  unmeasured  face, 
From  which  it  glares  like  some  red,  baleful  star, 
Upon  a  dismal,  dusk,  unspeaking  blank, — 
Has  mark'd  thee  strongly.    Labor  as  thou  inay'st — 
Speak,  like  thy  shell,  in  music — let  thy  words 
Be  like  the  honey  dews,  that,  on  the  rocks, 
Nursed  in  the  hollows,  nightly  fall  from  heaven, 
A  solace  tor  the  storm-bird  and  the  gull, — 
Yet  art  thou  fatal  to  the  spells  thou  hast 
And  bafflest  thine  own  art.    Thou  can'st  not  change  ; 
The  beast  is  high  o'er  all,  a  monstrous  mock, 


SCENE  I.]  ATALANTIS. 

In  contradiction  of  itself  and  strength — 

So  that  the  very  sweets  that  thou  may'st  own 

Grow  poisonous  in  thy  use. 

Onesi.  O,  thou  dost  well, 

And  wisely,  urging  me  to  anger  thus, 
'Till  thou  dost  dissipate  that  kindly  sense, 
At  variance  with  my  spirit,  which  my  love, 
Bids  -live  in  thy  behalf.     Dost  thou  not  fear, 
That,  vex'd  by  thy  sharp  mock  and  wanton  speech, 
My  love  shall  grow  to  hatred] 

Atal  Be  it  so  ! 

I  heed  thee  not — thy  anger  scorn,  not  fear  ;•— 
Thou  art  of  those,  being  the  foe  to  truth, 
That  art,  when  friendliest,  most  inimical, — 
And  dost  most  harm  in  doing  seeming  good, 
And  art  most  hateful,  most  injurious, 
When  most  professing  love  !     I  fear  thee  not, — 
Though  by  an  active  cunning — and  yet  less, 

T3y  ar.tivR  cunning  than  mino  own  nogloct, 

Gaining  the  advance  upon  us,  thou  hast  made 
A  prisoner  and  dire  enemy  of  one, 
Who,  in  another  chance,  and  other  time, 
Had  never  made  so  little  of  her  thought, 
To  waste  it  on  thee. 

Onesi.  Wilt  thou  nothing,  then, 

To  gain  thy  freedom  1     Thou  wilt  surely  smile, 
Lojk  pleased  in  some  small  sort,  and  speak  him  well, 
Whose  power  alone  can  free  thee. 

Atal  Trust  not  that ! 

I  shall  be  free  by  other  means,  and  soon  ! 
I  barter  not  my  grace  for  mine  own  right ; — 
Lest  that  the  gift,  misused,  grow  valueless  ! — 
Thou  hast  no  boon  in  all  thy  store  and  might 
Which  I  can  give  thee  thanks  for.     In  myself 
The  means  of  freedom  rest. 

Onesi.     [Aside.]          Ha  !  in  herself ! 
I  snatch'd  from  her  the  pow'rful  wand  which  made 
The  elements  do  her  bidding.     What  remains'? 

Atal.    A  power,  which  as  it  teaches  me  to  know 


10  ATALANTIS.  [ACT  I. 

The  secret  thought  thou  speak'st  not,  cannot  be 
Wrench'd  from  my  firm  possession. 
Onesl  We  shall  see  ! 

Thy  instincts  may  declare  my  thought,  but  cannot 
Avail  to  give  thee  freedom.    All  in  vain 
Thy  hope,  whether  within  thyself  it  be, 
Or  in  the  armies  which  thy  brothers  raise — 
Here,  powerless  in  the  conflict,  useless  all ; — 
For,  in  the  air,  I've  thrown  a  circling  spell, 
Borrow'd  from  night  and  silence, — which,  being  gross, 
Far  grosser  than  the  elements  which  make 
Your  finer  tempers,  ye  may  not  withstand  ! 
This  will  resist  them  !     Into  this,  who  comes, 
Not  fitted  like  ourselves  to  meet  its  power, 
Blinded  and  shorn  of  strength,  falls  feebly  down, 
And  straight  is  thrall'd  forever.     All  around 
Our  island  limit,  where  the  ocean  breaks, 
This  element  is  scattered  ; — like  a  wall, 

Shutting  out  all  invaoion,  —  olooing  all, 

Within,  from  commerce  with  the  realm  without ! 
Thus  art  thou  girdled  now.    Denied  thy  wand — 
Which,  in  yon  rock,  within  a  mystic  frame, 
Moulded  by  midnight  spells,  in  halls  where  rule 
Thousands  of  spirits  dethroned,  I  have  encased 
And  seal'd  with  magic,  and  the  mighty  word 
Given  me  at  creation  as  a  spell, 
That  consummates  my  will ; — thou  can'st  not  break 
The  narrow  circle  of  thy  prison  bound, 
And  taste  the  finer  element,  whose  breath 
Might  bring  thee  to  thy  power. 

Atal  Thy  prudence  well 

Has  counselled  thee  of  dangers  thou  must  dread  — 
Dangers  best  studied  in  thy  strong  defence 
And  wily  combinations.    But  thy  art 
Is  shallow  like  thy  power.     A  little  while, 
Watch  as  thou  may'st,  the  wand  is  mine  again, 
And  whatsoe'er  its  faculty,  be  sure 
It  shall  be  raised  against  thee.     Thou  shalt  be 
O'erthrown  when  most  secure  ;  and,  like  the  bird, 


SCENE  I.]  ATALANTIS.  11 

Slain  by  its  stronger  fellow,  as  thou  saw'st 

Upon  the  morn  I  fell  thy  prisoner, 

Even  from  thy  topmost  pinnacle  struck  down, 

Thy  fall  shall  mate  thy  arrogance  of  flight, 

Beneath  the  lowest,  low.     How  should  my  soul, 

Strong  among  giant  spirits,  hark  or  heed 

Thy  profferings  or  thy  threats  1     What  can'st  thou  do 

To  bend  my  purer  nature  unto  thine, 

In  base  extremity,  unless  I  yield, 

Wanton,  and  shorn  of  the  true  woman  strength, — 

Which  finds  best  nutriment  in  innocence, 

And  lives  mature  in  its  own  delicate  essence, 

A  power  in  due  degree  with  chastity, — 

To  meet  thy  brutal  want  and  foul  desire, 

Thou  that  art  foulest !     Thou  hast  'vantage  won, 

And  when  I  slept  thou  waked'st ;  and  I  now, 

For  a  brief  season,  suffer  that  I  slept, — 

That,  the  condition  of  all  negligence, — 

When,  with  a  subtle  and  dishonest  foe, 

Such  as  thou  art,  in  certain  neighborhood, 

We  should  have  watch'd  with  armament  prepared, 

And  every  weapon  bright,  and  high  rock  lit, 

Kindled  with  sea-spar  into  ruddiness  ! 

So  had'st  thou  shrunk  away,  scared  by  the  blaze, 

Cowering,  with  backward  terror,  'till  the  sun 

Thy  nature's  dread,  thy  great  antipathy, 

Leaping  from  off  his  billowy  bed  at  morn, 

No  cloud  about  his  brow,  and  strong  from  sleep, 

Drives  thee,  with  glittering  shafts  that  never  fail, 

Blinded  and  bellowing  to  thy  marshy  gulphs. 

Onesi.    Dost  thou  exult,  and  is  my  fate  so  sure, — 
And  shalt  thou  have  thy  liberty  so  soon, 
As  thou  dost  fancy  ]     Then,  a  gentler  speech 
Had  better  graced  thy  lips  as  conqueror, 
Over  the  feeble  foe  thou  can'st  not  fear. 
But  let  me  win  thee  to  some  fair  constraint 
Of  seeming  amnesty.     A  truce  awhile, 
To  this  so  keen  and  profitless  retort. 
Which  keeps  us  thus  asunder.    Let  us  each 


12  ATALANTIS.  [ACT  I. 

Heed  reason  from  the  other.    Thou  hast  said, 

With  hope  'yond  expectation,  that  thou  look'st 

For  soon  and  certain  help.    I  see  not  this 

Present  or  in  far  prospect ;  nor  beyond, 

In  the  imperfect  future,  can  I  frame 

The  aid  thou  look'st  for  from  thy  tribute  realms. 

These  things  affright  me  not  as  once  before, — 

My  kingdom  as  it  is,  all  well  prepared 

To  keep  its  own,  and  conquer,  right  or  wrong. 

Its  barriers  shut  out  hope  from  thee,  unless 

Thou  swerv'st  my  settled  feeling,  which  thou  may'st 

By  seasonable  yielding — so  shall  both 

Our  anxious  purpose  win  ; — thy  freedom  thou, 

And  I,  the  sweet  accomplishment  of  that 

Which  flames  desire  within  me  !     Well  I  know 

My  power  can  go  no  farther  than  thou  will'st, 

In  this  so  dear  condition, — but  thou  art, 

My  prisoner  still — and  that  may  move  thy  wish, 

Not  capable  of  liberty  unless 

My  will  shall  break  thy  fetters.    Hear  me  then, 

Since  this  our  opposition. 

Atal  Speak  f  I  hear  ! 

Onesi.    Become  my  bride, — nay,  patiently  ! — smile  not — 
My  Queen,  if  better  lists  thee.     On  my  throne, — 
Thou  hast  beheld  its  state, — of  emeralds  made, 
Each  one  a  crowning  and  a  marvellous  gem, 
Set  round  the  spacious  bosom  of  a  shell 
Torn  from  a  fierce  sea  monster — one  who  bore 
The  miracled  wonder  on  his  glittering  back, 
And  battled  for  it  as  became  its  worth, 
Nor  lost  it  ere  his  life  ; — thy  hand  shall  wield, — 
Fit  hand  for  such  a  rule  1— a  sceptred  wand, 
Pluck'd  from  an  ocean  cave  of  farthest  Ind, 
By  ancient  giants  held, — a  pillar'd  spire, 
Of  holiest  sapphire,  which  at  evening  burns 
Deeper  than  ever  sun-light,  and  around 
Lights  up  the  sable  waters  many  a  league, 
From  sea  to  shore,  'till  the  scared  'habitants 
Fly  to  their  cover  in  the  wood,  nor  dream 


SCENE  I.]  ATALANTIS.  13 

How  sportive  is  the  sway  of  that  Sea-Queen, 
Who  rides  the  waves  and  makes  them  smile  by  night. 
Atal.     Oh  !  wonderful !  most  wonderful ! 

Onesi.  Dost  scora?  — 

But  let  me  not  be  angered.     Hear  me  still. — 
These  are  but  shown  thee  to  declare  the  fruit, 
The  effect,  perchance,  but  not  the  source  of  might, 
So  fertile  as  is  mine.     But  thou  shalt  know, 
That,  of  the  full  division  of  these  seas, 
One  part  of  which  thou  hold'st,  the  great'st  is  mine  ;, 
My  realm  the  wid'st ;  and,  of  the  numerous  powers 
That  hold  dominion  in  these  provinces, 
Most  are  to  me  as  tributary  bound, 
Sworn  to  my  bidding,  subject  to  my  will, 
CompelPd  for  peace  and  war  !     These,  if  I  bid, 
I  gather  such  array,  as  leaves  my  power 
Unmatchable  by  all  the  tribes  that  swarm 
Thy  cities,  when  the  starlight  wakes  the  dance. 

Atal    I  know  not  that !     The  kingdom  which  T  hold 
Though  in  extent  less  spacious,  is  not  less 
Proportioned  to  the  incidents  of  war  ! 
Thou  hast  wide  realm  of  sea,  but  scattered  tribes  ; 
Can'st  gambol  hugely  when  the  waves  are  smooth, 
With  uncouth  legions  ;  but  when  sounds  the  gong, 
Struck  sharply  on  our  headlands,  they  go  down, 
Sudden,  in  search  of  shadowing  slime  and  reeds, 
Forgetting  all  their  state  and  mocking  thine, 
Indifferent  where  they  hide.    Thou  may'st  o'ercome 
The  sluggish  monster,  that,  upon  the  deep, 
Slumbers  at  noon-day, — winning,  with  his  life 
The  useless  glitter  of  his  cumbrous  shell ; — 
But,  for  becoming  enemy,  thou  hast 
But  little  armament  of  serious  force, 
Save,  as  I  said,  in  fraud  and  stratagem. 
Art  answer'd  ? 

Onesi.  Would'st  thou  more  1 

Atal.    No  !— But  say  thy  thought ! 

Oeesi.    Meetly  indulgent  for  a  captive  maid. — 
I  will  proceed,  and  leave  thee  to  decide, 
2 


14  ATALANTIS.  [ACT  1 

Whether  a  free  and  queenly  mistress,  thou, 
Ascend'st  a  monarch's  throne  and  shar'st  his  rule, 
Strong  in  sustaining  majesty  and  pride, 
Or,  vainly  chafing  at  thy  prison  bar, 
Rav'st  for  the  freedom  that  but  mocks  thy  sight, 
In  gleams  of  blessed  sky,  or  sudden  breath 
Of  zephyr  from  the  seas,  or  glimpse  of  wing, 
Lustrous  in  noonday  sunlight,  that  thou  see'st 
Disparting  the  white  clouds ! 

Atal.  Go  on  !     Go  on  ! 

Onesi.    Three  princely  cities  own  my  single  rule, — 
Hamlets  unnumbered, — homes  that,  scatter'd  wide, 
Hath  each  a  mighty  circle  for  a  court, 
Might  clasp  your  utter  empire.    Plain  and  cave 
Are  thus  made  rich  in  dwellings  for  a  tribe. 
Each  rock  hath  its  high  palace.    Not  a  wave 
Spans  its  receding  billow  but  o'erswims 
Some  golden  habitation  ;  where  the  light, 
A  mitigated  splendor,  like  the  moon, 
Without  its  chill  and  solitude,  comes  down 
From  empires  where  a  thousand  suns  abide, 
Struggling  with  rival  splendors  to  inflame 
A  thousand  realms  like  ours.    There,  subtle  gems, 
With  glories  such  as  starlight  flings  on  earth, 
Adorn  the  innoxious  serpents,  that  for  aye 
Through  the  long  hours,  with  toil  that  mocks  fatigue, 
Nightly  replenishing  their  founts  of  light, 
Trail  through  the  giant  groves,  and  meet  in  vales 
Whose  lavish  wealth,  in  absence  of  the  sun, 
Still  recompense  his  beams.    There  shalt  thou  see 
Rocks,  in  their  own  gifts  precious,  at  the  stroke 
Of  wondrous  masters,  spring  to  palaces  ; 
And,  at  a  word,  as  thou  hast  cause  to  know, 
Fair  islands,  flush  with  flowers,  and  rich  in  airs 
Of  most  persuasive  odor,  break  the  deeps, 
And  gather  in  the  sunlight.    And  again, 
Even  at  the  will  of  him  whose  sovereign  power 
Thou  mock'st  at  in  thy  mood,  evanishing, 
Forget  they  had  existence  ; — cheating  thus 


SCENE  I.]  ATALANTIS.  15 

The  gaze  of  simple  mariner,  who  dreams 
That,  towards  evening,  he  beholds  the  land 
And  cries  it  to  his  fellows, — who  straight  cheer 
The  hungering  hope  within  them,  while  they  spread 
The  broad  and  yellow  sail,  and  urge  their  prows, 
To  find  at  last, — so  wills  my  cunning  art — 
Some  hazy  cloud,  that  hangs  with  mocking  skirts 
Where  slept  the  wooing  land  as  night  came  down. 

Atal    Ay,  thou  art  all  a  cheat !     'Tis  like  thyself 
To  mock  the  weary  heart,  and  still  to  vex 
The  sick  soul's  expectation.    But  thy  power, 
As  thou  describ'st  it  in  thy  fairest  speech, 
And  most  imploring  aspect,  moves  not  me, 
And  wins  me  not  in  wonder  or  in  love. 
The  simple  mariner  who  needs  the  barque, 
Which,  in  their  reckless  mood,  the  waves  may  wreck, 
And  wanton  winds  destroy,  affords,  methinks, 
But  little  trophy,  with  his  bleaching  bones, 
On  desert  sands,  and  isles  beyond  thy  gulph, 
To  him  who  conquers  thus,  even  by  a  will, 
Without  the  joy  of  conflict.    Spare,  I  pray, 
Thy  farther  story.    Breathe,  and  let  me  breathe, 
Some  purer  air  than  that  which  from  thy  lips 
Assails  each  wholesome  sense  with  sickliness. 

Onesi.    Wilt  thou  not  hear  me  "* 

Atal  Can  I  else  than  hear, 

Close  girt  as  my  poor  fortunes  find  me  now  1 
Wer't  in  my  will,  thou  should'st  play  orator 
To  things  of  thy  own  fashion,  not  to  me  ! 
Thy  jewel-headed  serpents,  the  huge  beast, 
Thou  rid'st  to  war,  and  whom,  when  met  by  foes 
Thou  can'st  not  baffle  here,  thou  send'st  to  land, 
To  trample  down  the  cities  of  the  tribes 
That  only  wet  their  feet  within  thy  waves, 
To  bring  down  ruin  on  them.     Go  to  these, 
And  tell  them  of  thy  prowess  and  thy  wealth  ! — 
Nor  these,  nor  thee  I  heed,  and  would  not  hear. 

Onesi,    Thou  bind'st  thy  fetters  faster  with  each  word  !— 
But  ho  !— That  signal  breaks  my  farther  speech. 


16  ATALANTIS.  [ACT  I. 

Here  are  new  captives.    Prone  upon  our  isle 

Comes  some  adventurous  barque  that  must  be  stay'd, 

And  punish'd  for  its  crime.     We  must  not  have 

Thy  presence  mock'd  with  such  vile  things  of  earth, 

That  know  not  of  the  rarest  beautiful, 

Such  as  adorns  thy  virtues — makes  thy  form 

Itself  a  virtue  of  the  beautiful, 

That  spells  all  best  affections  at  a  glance, 

And  makes  them  slaves  forever.    I  must  speed 

And  save  thee  from  these  wretches,  who  shall  taste 

That  pow'r  which  thou  defy'st.     But  now  look  forth, 

And  see  the  great  ship  shatter 'd  into  foam  ; 

Fierce,  rending  wings  among  its  cloud  broad  vans, 

And  mounting  billows  darting  up  its  sides 

To  drag  it  down  to  ruin.    Lend  thine  ear 

To  the  wild  music  of  their  cries  ; — their  shrieks 

That  the  storm  mocks,  and  the  ascending  seas 

Stifle  in  their  own  murmurs  ! — It  will  need, 

Fair  Atalant,  I  leave  thee  : — yet,  ere  day 

Hath  fully,  in  the  chambers  of  the  deep, 

Ta'en  off  his  pinions  ; — ere  this  gentle  eve, 

With  eyes  of  ever-dropping  dews,  hath  shut 

The  sweet  unmurmuring  flow'rs, — and  bade  the  night 

Summon  upon  her  realm  the  spirit  airs 

That  all  subdue  to  silence — the  voiced  things 

Of  myriad  elements  and  agencies, 

That  breathe  beneath  the  moon — I  shall  return 

To  seek  thee  with  a  hope  ; — ah  !  not  in  vain, — • 

Eager  for  fitting  answer  to  that  pray'r 

That  else  must  be  the  stern  authority 

Of  will  that  breaks  resistance.     'Till  that  hour, 

Thou  hast  for  calm  reflection  ; — let  it  teach 

A  sweet  response  of  sympathy  to  mine, 

And  love  as  yielding  soft  as  mine  is  fond  ; — 

Else,  let  thy  fear 

Atal  Thou  know'st  I  have  no  fear  ! 

Get  thee  hence,  monster,  to  thy  work  of  dread, 
Since  pray'r  may  never  move  thee.     Thou'st  no  art 
To  work  upon  my  terrors.    My  spirit  is  made 


SCENE  I.]  ATALANTIS.  I 

Of  essence  far  more  confident  than  thine. 
Rather  thou  tremble,  that,  as  I  am  pure, — 
For  so  the  ruler  that  we  all  obey 
Hath  will'd  it — and  most  haply  will'd  it  too — 
I  may  command  to  use  the  spirits  who  rule 
O'er  the  unclouded  seasons — those  who  glide, 
Through  the  illumined  mansions  of  the  night, 
Teaching  the  stars  their  watches — those  who  sway, 
With  melodies  of  power,  all  elements — 
And  of  the  zephyr  from  the  south  and  west, 
The  voice  that  comes  with  morning,  and  declares 
The  hour  when  day  shall  droop, — can  call  a  spell 
To  dissipate  the  darkness,  and  dispart 
Thy  blackest  shapes  of  storm. 

Onesi.  When  thou  art  free  ! 

Atal.    Alas  !  that  I  were  free, — then  should'st  thou  feel. 
And  fly,  and  learn  to  spare  ! 

Onesi.  Now,  I  despise 

And,  as  you  speak  their  agencies,  defy 
The  entire  realm  of  air,  the  stars,  and  all, — 
Your  spirit  of  the  south  and  of  the  west, 
Your  voice  of  night  and  morning,  and  their  spells  ; — 
Your  tiny  tribes,  your  coral  queen — the  hosts, 
Myriads  of  lesser  power  and  feebler  wing, 
That  make  your  choice  dominion — all  I  scorn  ! 
And,  but  that  mine  own  want  would  have  thee  grace,. 
With  milder  seeming  this  same  pray'r  of  mine, 
I  should  devote  thee.  heedless  of  the  youth, 
The  glory  and  the  beauty  of  thy  form, — 
Which,  to  mine  eye,  foul  as  you  deem  its  make, 
Stands  up,  a  rich  perfection,  born  to  shine, 
In  any  world  of  loveliness,  the  first — 
To  the  same  ruin  and  destruction  sure 
Thou  hold'st  for  the  most  hateful  enemy. 
I  love  thee  not  to  pleasure  thee,  or  give 
A  satisfaction  craved.     I  please  myself, 
And  nothing  care  for  others.     I  play  not 
The  wary  hypocrite,  but  speak  my  thought, — 
My  will,  even  as  it  rises  to  my  thought; — 
2* 


18  ATALANTIS.  [ACT  I 

Nor  seek  I  for  thy  love,  but  only  seek 

For  such  equivalent  as  may  suffice, 

In  love's  own  absence,  my  enamored  sense, 

Thou  hear'st  me  1 — and  thou  know'st  me  1     It  is  well ! 

Be  wise  while  thou  art  wary.     I  depart.  [Exit  ONESI. 

Atal    Ay,  go,  thou  loathsome  !     Thou  hast  fill'd  the  air 
With  foulness,  and  my  breath  is  scarce  more  free 
Than  the  poor  form  thou  hast  fetter'd  by  thy  fraud  ! 
Thou,  as  thy  menace,  from  my  thought  depart 
I  scorn  thee  and  defy  thy  utmost  power  ! 
Thou  hast  no  art  to  win  me  to  thy  will, 
And,  until  I,  forgetful  of  myself, 
Do  so  declare  me,  thou  can'st  never  bend 
My  spirit  to  thy  purpose.     I  behold, — 
Though  in  what  shape  it  come  I  may  not  see, — 
My  liberation  sure.    Awhile,  awhile  ! 
Sweet  patience  in  my  circumscribed  bound, 
Give  me  thy  succor.    Ere  the  moon  shall  soar 
Thrice  from  her  saffron  chamber — ere  the  winds, 
Sporting  thrice  round  the  red  embodied  day 
Shall  win  him  into  smiles  with  melodies — 
And,  ere  the  wing'd  stars,  through  the  misty  vault, 
Gleam  thrice  upon  the  troubles  of  the  night — 
I  shall  be  free  this  monster's  pestilence. 
Come  hither  to  me,  Nea.     Thou,  at  least, 
Art  spared  me,  and  he  knows  not — shallow  king  1 
That  knows  not  his  own  power,  and  little  dreams, 
Of  captive  but  the  one.    Hither  to  me, 
And  let  my  sad  eyes  freshen  with  the  sight, 
The  picture  of  the  gentler  clime  and  race, 
In  thy  perfections,  damsel.     Wake  thy  shell, 
And  with  a  sweet  song  from  its  purple  depths, 
Call  up  the  happier  fancies  that  preside 
O'er  the  dear  hopes  we  see  not.    Let  me  lose 
The  turbulent  thought  within  me  ! 

A  Voice.  I  am  here,  mistress. 


SCENE  II.]  ATALANTIS.  19 


SCENE  II. —  The  Same. 

ATALANTIS,  NEA. 

Atal.    Thy  sweetest  song,  my  Nea, — 
Such  as  he  sings,  the  spirit  of  the  shell, 
That  brooding  in  his  billows  never  sleeps, 
For  longing  of  his  home,  and  still  who  hears 
Its  voices,  breathing  ever  sighs  of  love, 
In  echo  to  his  own,  by  ocean's  marge, 
Telling  of  purple  islets  in  the  deep, 
Where  first  he  won  his  wings  and  whence  his  voice. 

SONG  OF  THE  SHELL-SPIRIT. 
I. 

I  am  of  the  sprites  of  ocean, 

Dweller  there,  the  gentlest  one, 
And  I  take  my  airy  motion, 

When  the  day  is  done  ; 
It  is  mine,  the  voice  that  rouses 

All  the  lovely  tribes  of  sea, 
From  their  tiny  coral  houses, 

Glad  to  wake  with  me. 

II. 

When  the  sun,  in  ocean  sinking, 

Leaves  to  fairy  power  the  earth, 
When  the  night  stars,  slowly  winking,  ^ 

Bid  the  winds  have  birth  ; 
Gently  o'er  the  waters  stealing, 

Mine's  the  song  that  sweetly  flies, 
Wooing  to  one  common  feeling 

Ocean,  earth  and  skies. 

III. 

Loveliest  of  the  zephyr's  daughters, 

Born  to  breathe  in  bloom  and  shin«, 
I  con  still  the  angry  waters 

With  a  breath  of  mine. 
Not  a  stronger  spirit  rideth 

O'er  the  rolling  waves  than  I; 
Not  a  lovelier  shape  abideth 

'Neath  the  tropic  sky. 

Atal    Sweet  is  the  air  thou  sing'st!  Ah !  would 'twere  true  ! 
Would  that  our  spirit  of  the  shell  had  power, 


20  ATALANTIS.  [ACT  I. 

Such  as  thou  brag'st  of; — it  were  easy  then, 

Flung  by  our  billows  on  this  sultry  isle, 

To  conjure  up  a  service  at  his  wings, 

Might  give  us  present  freedom.     Thou  hast  themes, 

Might  better  suit  our  state  than  this  which  mocks, 

Our  hearts'  best  wishes.     One  of  these,  my  girl, — 

Some  ditty  of  o|d  romance,  such  as  our  realm — 

A  spacious  province,  where  the  wand'ring  thought 

And  vvilder'd  fancy,  erring,  may  be  lost — 

Owns  without  limit.     Thou  can'st  meetly  sing 

Of  bearded-white  Ogrear,  the  giant-king, 

Who,  with  the  music  of  his  magic  horn, 

Subdued,  and  to  his  pastures  midst  the  rocks, 

Guided  the  monster  first,  which,  in  itself, 

Is  a  huge  mountain,  rolling  on  the  deeps, 

Unconscious  of  his  load,  though  on  his  back, 

Rode  the  old  wizard's  tribe — his  giant  sons 

And  daughters,  an  unnumbered  family, 

That  sung  in  concert  to  the  old  man's  horn, 

Until  the  monster,  drowsing  in  his  path, 

Yielded  himself,  as  fast  fix'd  as  an  isle, 

Through  the  long  summer's  day.     This  were  a  theme, 

Might  make  us  half  forgetful  that  we  weep 

As  fettered  as  was  he.    And  other  themes, — 

The  gloom  that  hangs  above  the  prison  house, 

Might  challenge  something  from  thy  memory, 

More  kindred  to  the  touch  of  mournful  thoughts. 

Let  thy  song  teach  us  of  the  corning  hour, — 

Sad  time, — when  on  the  perilous  journey  bent, 

We  pass  the  untravell'd  valley,  till  we  find, 

That  other  province  of  delay, — that  home, 

Of  temporary  refuge,  dark  or  bright, 

As  suited  to  the  service  we  have  done, 

In  past  conditions  ; — other  seas,  perchance, 

Unvex'd  by  contact  with  rebellious  power, 

Such  as  offends  us  here  ; — a  happy  realm, 

Whose  provinces  are  lit  by  countless  smiles, 

From  the  benignant  presence  of  a  God, 

Whose  will  is  born  of  love  ! — or,  saddest  thought, 


SCENE  II.]  ATALANTIS.  21 

Descending  from  our  grade,  in  baser  shape, 
Doora'd  in  tho  mansions  of  sea-weed  to  dwell, 
Thence  only  darting,  under  cruel  impulse, 
And  chasing,  with  a  terrible  agony, 
The  wild  and  staring  mariner,  grown  weak, 
And  hopeless  of  the  shore,  his  straining  balls, 
Shall  never  more  encounter. 

Nea.  None  of  these  ! — 

Too  sad  thy  fortunes  now  for  themes  so  sad. — 
But  I  would  rather  from  my  memory  call, 
Some  of  those  ditties  sung  in  happier  days, 
Which  thou  hast  bid  me  thrice  and  thrice  repeat, 
And  ever  with  the  tear  within  thine  eye, 
Which  spoke  thy  pleasure — when,  upon  the  close, 
Thou  did'st,  unconscious,  with  mine  own  chime  in 
The  murmurs  of  thy  melancholy  voice, 
Till  the  vex'd  waters,  wroth  with  overflow, 
Subdued  their  sullen  crests,  in  service  rapt, 
And,  at  thy  feet,  in  murmurs  like  thine  own, 
Grew  captive  to  our  song.     There  is  one  strain 
Methinks  might  glad  thine  ear,  of  Coraline — 
One  of  those  gentle  damsels  of  the  groves, 
WThom  sometimes  we  see  sporting  on  the  isles, 
Amidst  the  flowers,  when  first  upon  the  sky, 
The  moon's  bright  sickle  glows.     She  taught  it  me  ; — 
It  tells  of  loves,  and  how  they  love,  and  speaks 
So  truly  of  the  passion,  that  meseems, 
It  must  have  first  been  wrought  within  our  cells, 
And  borrowed  by  these  warblers  of  the  wood. 

Atal.     Sing,  if  it  speaks  of  love.    Such  song,  methinks, 
Must  only  make  more  hateful  our  constraint, 
Upon  this  loathsome  isle.     I  hearken  thee. 

SONG  OF  CORALINE. 
I. 

Be  at  my  side  when  the  winds  are  awaking, 
Each  from  his  cave,  in  the  d?pths  of  the  night ; 

Fly  to  our  groves,  till  the  daylight  comes  breaking, 
Fresh  from  the  east  with  his  tremulous  light. 


2*2  ATALANTIS.  [ACT  I. 

When  the  stars  peer  out  in  the  blue  deeps  of  even, 

When  the  crowd  is  at  rest,  and  the  moon  soars  apace, 
Silent,  and  sad,  through  the  watches  of  heav'n, 

Be  thou,  beloved,  at  the  love-hallow'd  place  : 

Come  in  thy  beauty  and  lightness, 
Bright-eyed  and  "free-footed,  O  !  dearest  one,  come, 

Filling  the  dark  wood  with  brightness 

And  crowning  the  green  hill  with  bloom; — 
Such  bloom — the  heart-chosen  for  thousand  sweet  groves, 
As  is  dear  to  the  wood-nymphs  and  born  of  their  loves. 

11. 

In  the  spirit  of  beauty,  bewitchingly  tender, 

Fly  to  my  bosom,  beloved  of  my  heart ; 
Thy  lip  bearing  sweetness,  thine  eye  giving  splendor, 

Thy  smile  shedding  rapture  wherever  thou  art ; 
And  while  the  pale  moon-light  is  round  and  above  thee, 

While  the  leaves  twinkle  soft  in  the  breeze  o'er  thy  brow, 
Hear,  dearest  rose  of  my  heart,  how  I  love  thee, 

And  treasure,  sweet  spirit,  my  vow. 

Come!  while  the  night-gems  are  glowing, 
Each  in  his  orb,  over  forest  and  sea, 

Less  glory,  though  bright  in  their  beauty,  bestowing 

Than  that  which  now  hangs  about  thee. 
Fly  to  me,  blest,  in  this  gentlest  of  hours, 
Outshining  the  planets,  outblooming  the  flowers. 

Atal.    Thy  song  delights  me  not — nay,  not  thy  song 
That  fails,  the  softness  of  thy  linked  words. 
Or  melody  of  thy  music ; — in  my  heart. 
Lies  the  defect  of  sweetness — which  comes  not 
To  take  the  shadow  from  our  prison-house. 
It  is  the  captive's  spirit  that  complains, 
Not  Atalantis. 

Nea.  Would  I  could  cheer  thee,  mistress. 

Atal.    Thou  shalt,  my  Nea. — Speed  thee  round  this  isle, 
And  mark  what  thou  behold'st.     'Tis  not  in  thee, 
To  shrink  from  contact  with  the  heavy  earth, 
Its  damp  and  vapor.     But  to  us,  who  are 
Wrought  of  more  delicate  matter,  all  is  gross 
That  yields  this  monster  tribute. 

Nea.  We've  some  range, 

Sweet  mistress  !  and  I  prithee  wend  with  me, 
As  near  we  may,  the  borders  of  the  sea, 
Looking  toward  our  province.    Better  airs 


SCENE  I.]  ATALANTIS.  23 

Methinks,  will  come  to  cheer  us  into  smiles, 
From  waters  that  we  loved  ;  and  newer  hopes, 
As  we  look  out  upon  the  waste  beyond, 
Will  freshen  us  with  strength.    Along  the  sea, 
Some  little  range  is  left  us.     There  we  may,    v 
Call  up  sweet  fancies  from  our  dreams  of  hope,  / 
And  feel  the  wayward  spirit  wake  to  life, 
Surveying  the  blue  waters  and  our  home  ! 

Atal    I'll  go  with  thee  !     I  pine  for  the  sweet  airs 
Of  my  own  Merge  van. 

Nea.  They'll  seek  us  out, 

With  loving  consciousness  of  that  we  seek. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. —  The  Ocean :  the  islet  of  ONESIMARCHUS  in  the  back 
ground — a  ship  in  the  distance,  approaching.  The  Zephyr- 
Spirit  rides  upon  the  billow. 

Zephyr- Spirit.    It  is  a  gallant  vessel,  and  it  bends, 
To  the  new  islet  of  Onesimarch  ; — 
That  bigot  and  most  brutal  arbiter 
Of  eighty  leagues  of  ocean.     He  hath  rear'd, 
In  the  past  day,  these  undetected  rocks, 
Whose  subtle  currents,  by  his  strategy, 
Will  suck  the  unconscious  vessel  to  the  snare  ; 
Baffling  the  untutor'd  mariner,  whose  skill 
Might  vainly  hope  escape,  within  the  jaws 
Of  this  dread  artifice.     Now,  in  the  deep, 
Will  I  dispose  myself ;  and,  by  my  art, 
Conceal'd  in  folding  billows,  in  the  guise 
Of  green-hair'd  maid  of  the  waters,  with  a  song 
Still  gently  studied  to  invade  his  sense, 
Will  teach  him  of  the  danger  he  may  'scape 
By  seasonable  flight.    A  human  voice, 
Tis  mine  to  mingle  with  these  ocean  tones, 


24  ATALANTIS.  [ACT  II. 

And,  by  a  sweet  mysterious  sympathy, 

That  ever  still  its  benefit  declares 

To  the  unslumb'ring  instinct,  will  I  teach 

The  error  of  his  prow.     Haj>ly,  by  this, 

His  way  he  may  regain,  and  newly  trim 

His  prone  and  headlong  sail,  that,  steering  thus, 

Must  soon  encounter  with  the  treacherous  rocks, 

That  hunger  for  their  prey.    And,  to  my  wish 

Of  swift  concealment  from  his  eager  sight, 

A  sudden  cloud  is  spreading  o'er  yon  heap 

Of  crested  waters.     There  will  I  imbed 

My  many  folds  of  form,  while,  with  my  voice, 

I  frame  a  music  for  this  mariner, 

Not  to  beguile  him  with  fresh  fantasies, 

But  wake  him  to  the  peril  in  his  path. 

[Scene  changes  to  the  deck  of  the  ship.     Count  LEON  mu 
sing  at  the  side. 
Leon.    [Solus.]    I  have  been  drowsing  sure, — yet  what  a 

dream, 

So  strange  to  earth,  so  natural  to  romance  ; — 
And  such  wild  music  ; — hark  ! — it  comes  again. 

SONG  OF  THE  ZEPHYR-SPIRIT. 

I. 

I  have  come  from  the  deeps  where  the  sea-maiden  twines, 

In  her  bowers  of  amber,  her  garlands  of  shells ; 
For  a  captive  like  thee,  in  her  chamber  she  pines, 

And  weaves  for  thy  coming  the  subtlest  of  spells ; 
She  has  breathed  on  the  harpstring  that  sounds  in  her  cave, 

And  the  strain  as  it  rose  has  been  murmured  for  thee  ; 
She  would  win  thee  from  earth  for  her  home  in  the  wave, 

And  her  couch,  in  the  coral  grove,  deep  in  the  sea. 

II. 

Thou  hast  dream'd  in  thy  boyhood  of  sea-circled  bowers, 

Where  all  may  be  found  that  is  joyous  and  bright, — 
Where  life  is  a  frolic  through  fancies  and  flowers, 

And  the  soul  lives  in  dreams  of  a  lasting  delight ! 
Would'st  thou  win  what  thy  fancies  have  taught  to  thy  heart] 

Would'st  thou  dwell  with  the  maiden  now  pining  lor  thee  1 
Fling  away  from  the  cares  cf  the  earth,  and  depart 

For  her  mansions  of  coral,  far  down  in  the  sea. 


SCENE  I.]  ATALANTIS.  25 

III. 

Her  charms  will  beguile  thee  when  noonday  is  nigh, 

The  song  of  her  nymphs  shall  persuade  thee  to  sleep, 
She  will  watch  o'er  thy  couch  as  the  storm  hurries  by, 

Nor  suffer  the  sea-snake  beside  thee  to  creep ; 
But  still  with  a  charm  which  is  bora  of  the  hours 

Her  love  shall  implore  thee  to  bliss  ever  free  ; 
Thou  wilt  rove  with  delight  through  her  chrystalline  bow'rs^. 

And  sleep  without  care  in  her  home  of  the  sea. 

Leon.    Most  sweet  indeed,  but  something  in  the  spell, 
Proclaims  it  cold.     Even  were  the  precious  love, 
Such  as  this  music  speaks  of,  'twere  enough 
To  palsy  passion  in  the  human  heart, 
And  make  its  fancies  fail. — My  Isabel. 
Enter  ISABEL. 

Isabel.    What  wraps  you  thus,  sweet  brother]  Why  so  sad,, 
When  thus  so  trimly  speeds  our  swanlike  bark 
O'er  the  smooth  waters  1    But  a  few  days  more, 
We  tread  the  lovely  island  that  we  seek, 
Whose  bow'rs  of  beauty  and  eternal  spring 
Recal  the  first  sweet  garden  of  our  race, 
Before  it  knew  the  serpent.    Dost  thou  sadden, 
That  thus  we  near  those  regions  1     Art  thou  sick, 
Dear  brother,  that  such  vague  abstraction  creeps 
Over  your  eyes,  that  seem  as  'twere  in  search, 
For  airy  speculations  in  the  deep. 

Leon.     Thou'rt  right ! — An  airy  speculation  sure, 
Since  I  can  nothing  see  to  speak  for  it 
And  tell  me  whence  it  comes. 

Isabel  What  is't  thou  mean'st  V 

Leon.    A  moment, — stay  !     Now,  as  I  live,  I  heard  it 
Steal  by  me,  as  the  murmurs  of  a  lute 
From  thy  own  lattice,  Isabel. 

Isab.  Whatheard'st?— 

What  is  it  that  thou  speak'st  of? 

Leon.  A  strain  of  song, — 

That  crept  along  the  waters  from  afar, 
Softly  at  first,  but  growing  as  it  came 
3 


26  ATALANTIS.  [ACT  II. 

To  an  embodied  strength  of  harmony, 

That  spoke  to  all  my  joys.    It  bore  a  tone 

Slight  as  a  spirit's  whisper,  born  of  love 

In  aspiration, — such  as  innocent  youth 

Acknowledges  at  first,  ere  yet  the  world, 

Has  schooled  it  by  its  sorrows  to  caprice. 

'Twas  like  thy  own  sweet  music,  Isabel, 

When  out  among  ouj  Andalusian  hills, 

We  play'd  the  dusk  Morisco  for  a  while, 

Grown  wanton  in  the  moonlight  with  the  flowers 

That  seemed  to  sing  us  back.     Oh  !  thou  should'st  hear 

To  sadden  with  its  sweetness. 

Isab.  Thou  hast  dream'd  ! — 

Whence  should  such  music  come  ? 

Leon.  Ay  !  whence  indeed, 

But  from  some  green-hair'd  maiden  of  the  deep, 
As  still  our  legends  tell  us,  such  there  be, 
That,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  lonely  rocks, 
Midway  in  ocean,  loose  their  flowing  locks, 
And,  with  strange  songs,  discoursing  to  the  waves, 
Subdue  their  crests  to  service. 

Isab.  As  the  tale 

Of  Nicuesa  pictures.    Would'st  thou  hear? 

Leon.     Sing  it  my  Isabel. 

Isab.  'Tis  something  like 

Thy  fancy, — nay,  has  been  the  making  of  't, 
While  thou  wert  dreaming.    But  thou  did'st  not  dream. 

BALLAD. 
I. 

'Mong  Lucayo's  isles  and  waters 

Leaping  to  the  evening  light, 
Dance  the  moonlight's  silver  daughters 
Tresses  streaming,  glances  gleaming 

Ever  beautiful  and  bright. 

II. 

And  their  wild  and  mellow  voices, 

Still  to  hear  along  the  deep, 
Every  brooding  star  rejoices, 
While  the  billow,  on  its  pillow 

Lull'd  to  silence,  sinks  to  sleep. 


SCENE  I-]  ATALANTIS. 

III. 

Yet  they  wake  a  song  of  sorrow, 

Those  sweet  voices  of  the  night ; 
Still  from  grief  a  gift  they  borrow, 
And  hearts  shiver,  as  they  quiver 
With  a  wild  and  sad  delight. 

IV. 

'Tis  the  wail  for  life  they  waken 

By  Samana's  lonely  shore; 
With  the  tempest  it  is  shaken, 
The  wide  ocean  is  in  motion 

And  the  song  is  heard  no  more. 

V. 

But  the  gallant  bark  comes  sailing, 
At  her  prow  the  chieftain  stands; 

He  hath  heard  the  tender  wailing— 

It  delights  him — it  invites  him 
To  the  joys  of  other  lands. 

VI. 

Bright  the  moonlight  round  and  o'er  him, 

And,  O!  see,  a  picture  lies 
In  the  yielding  waves  before  him,— 
Woman  smiling,  still  beguiling 

In  the  depths  of  wondrous  eyes. 

VII. 

White  arms  toss  above  the  waters, 

Pleading  murmurs  fill  his  ears, 
'  And  the  Glueen  of  Ocean's  daughters, 
Heart  alluring,  love  assuring 
Wins  him  down  with  tears. 

VIIJ. 

On,  the  good  ship  speeds  without  him, 

By  Samana's  lonely  shore  ; 
They  have  wound  their  arms  about  him, 
In  the  waters, — ocean's  daughter's, 

Sadly  singing  as  before ! 

Leon.    Unhappy  Nicuesa ! 

Isab.  Such  his  song, 

And,  with  the  ocean  murmur  in  thy  ears, 
Thy  fancy,  in  thy  dream,  has  made  it  thine. 

Leon.    I  did  not  sleep  or  dream,  my  Isabel  ;— 
I  heard  this  wondrous  music,  even  now, 


28  ATALAKTIS.  [ACT  II. 

When  first  I  sumrnon'd  thee.    I  grant  it  strange 
That  it  should  syllable  to  familiar  sound, 
Boyhood's  first  fancies,  of  fair  isles  that  lie 
In  farthest  depths  of  ocean, — jewell'd  isles 
Boundless  in  but  imaginable  spoils, 
Such  as  boy-visions  only  can  conceive 
And  boyhood's  faith  admit. 

Isab.  And  still  thou  dream'st ! — 

Thy  boyhood's  legends  and  thy  boyhood's  faith, 
Grown  fresh  beneath  the  force  of  circumstance, 
And  the  wild  fancies  of  this  foreign  world, 
Still  carry  thee  away, — 'till  thou  forget'st, — 
As  still  the  wisest  may, — the  difference, 
'Twixt  those  two  worlds, — the  one  where  nature  toils, 
The  other  she  but  dreams  of. 

Leon.  'Twas  no  dream  ! 

It  comes  again  !     Now  hark  thee,  Isabel — 
It  is  no  murmur  of  the  deep  thou  hear'st ! 
It  hath  a  voice  not  human, — not  unlike — 
And  sings,  as  still  a  spirit  might  do,  that 'wills 
To  do  humanity  service.    Hark  ! 

Isab.  I  do ! — 

Yet  I  hear  nothing. 

Leon.  Sure,  I  did  not  dream  ! 

'Twas  like  the  zephyr  through  a  bed  of  reeds 
Sighing  as  'twere  at  cheerlessness  of  home, 
In  the  approach  of  winter. 

Isab.  Oh  !  no  more  ! — 

Thou  art  too  led  astray  by  idle  thoughts, 
Dear  Leon; — dost  possess  thee  of  the  hues, 
Shed  by  the  passing  cloud,  and  mak'st  thy  heart, 
Still  the  abiding  place  of  hopeless  fancies 
That  waste  thy  strength  of  will.     Thou  art  too  prone 
To  these  wild  speculations. 

Leon.  Hear  it  now  ! 

My  fancy  trick'd  me  not, — my  sense  was  true, — 
It  comes  again,  far  off,  and  very  fine, 
As  the  first  birth  'twixt  silence  and  his  mate, 
The  mother  of  the  voice.    Now,  Isabel, — 


SCENE  I.]  ATALANTIS.  29' 

Thy  ears  are  traitors  if  they  do  not  feel 
That  music  as  it  sweeps  by  us  but  now. 

Isdb,     I  hear  a  murmur  truly,  but  so  slight — 
A  breath  of  the  wind  might  make  it,  or  a  sail 
Drawn  suddenly. 

Leon.  Art  silenced  1    It  is  there  ! 

ZEPHYR-SPIRIT. 

In  ihe  billow  before  thee 

My  form  is  conceal'd — 
In  the  breath  that  comes  o'er  thee 

My  thought  is  reveal'd — 
Strown  thickly  beneath  me 

The  coral  rocks  grow, 
And  the  waves  that  enwreath  me, 

Are  working  thee  wo. 

Leon.    Did'st  hear  it,  Isabel  1 

Isab.  It  spoke,  methought, 

Of  peril  from  the  rocks  that  near  us  grow. 

Leon.    It  did,  but  idly  !     Here  can  lurk  no  rocks 
For,  by  the  chart  which  now  before  us  lies, 
Thy  own  unpractised  eye  may  well  discern 
The  wide  extent  of  the  ocean — shoreless  all ; 
The  land,  for  many  a  league,  to  th'  westward  hangs, 
And  not  a  point  beside  it. 

Isdb.  Wherefore  then, 

Should  come  this  voice  of  warning  1 

Leon.  From  the  deep : 

It  hath  its  demons  as  the  earth  and  air, 
All  tributaries  to  the  master-fiend 
That  sets  their  springs  in  motion.     This  is  one, 
That,  doubting  to  mislead  us,  plants  this  wile, 
So  to  divert  our  course,  that  we  may  strike 
The  very  rocks  he  fain  would  warn  us  from. 

Isab.    A  subtle  sprite — and,  now  I  think  of  it, 
Dost  thou  remember  the  old  story  told 
By  Diaz  Ortis,  the  lame  mariner, 
Of  an  adventure  in  the  Indian  seas, 
Where  he  made  one  with  John  of  Portugal,  — 
Touching  a  woman  of  the  ocean  wave 
3* 


80  ATALANTIS.  [ACT  II. 

That  swam  beside  the  barque  and  sang  strange  songs 
Of  riches  in  the  waters  ; — with  a  speech 
So  winning  on  the  senses,  that  the  crew, 
Grew  all  infected  with  the  melody, 
And,  but  for  a  good  father  of  the  church 
Who  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  and  offer'd  up 
Befitting  pray'r,  which  drove  the  fiend  away, 
They  had  been  tempted  by  her  cunning  voice 
To  leap  into  the  ocean. 

Leon.  I  do,  I  do  ! 

And,  at  the  time,  I  do  remember  me, 
I  made  much  mirth  of  the  extravagant  tale, 
As  a  deceit  of  the  reason ; — the  old  man 
Being  in  his  second  childhood,  and  at  fits, 
As  wild,  in  other  histories,  as  this. 

Isab.     I  never  more  shall  mock  at  marvellous  things  ; 
Such  strange  conceits  hath  after  time  found  true, 
That  once  were  themes  for  jest.     I  shall  not  smile 
At  the  most  monstrous  legend. 

Leon.  Nor  will  I!  — 

To  any  tale  of  foreign  wonderment, 
I  shall  bestow  mine  ear  nor  wonder  more  ; 
And  every  image  that  my  childhood  bred, 
In  vagrant  dreams  of  fancy,  I  shall  look, 
To  find,  without  rebuke,  my  sense  approve. 
Thus,  like  a  little  island  of  the  deep, 
Girdled  by  perilous  seas,  and  all  unknown 
To  prows  of  venture,  may  be  yon  same  cloud 
Specking,  with  fleecy  bosom,  the  blue  sky, 
Lit  by  the  rising  moon.    There,  we  may  dream, 
And  find  no  censure  in  an  after  day, 
Throng  the  assembled  fairies,  perch'd  on  beams, 
And  riding  on  their  way  triumphantly. 
There  gather  the  coy  spirits.     Many  a  fay, 
Roving  the  silver  sands  of  that  same  isle, 
Floating  in  azure  ether,  plumes  her  wing 
Of  ever-frolicsome  fancy,  and  pursues, 
While  myriads  like  herself,  do  watch  the  chase* 
Some  truant  sylph,  through  the  infinitude 


SCENE  I.]  ATALANTIS.  31 

Of  their  uncircumscribed  and  rich  domain. 

There  sport  they  through  the  Light,  with  mimicry 

Of  strife  and  battle,— striking  their  tiny  shields 

And  gathering  into  combat ;  meeting  fierce, 

With  lip  compress'd,  and  spear  aloft,  and  eye 

Glaring  with  desperate  purpose  in  the  fight ; — 

Then  sudden — in  a  moment  all  their  wrath 

Mellow'd  to  friendly  terms  of  courtesy — 

Throwing  aside  the  dread  array  and  link'd, 

Each.,  in  his  foe's  embrace.    Then  comes  the  dance, 

The  grateful  route,  tho  wild  and  musical  pomp, 

The  long  procession  o'er  fantastic  realms 

Of  cloud  and  moonbeam,  through  th'  enamour'd  night, 

Making  it  all  one  revel.    Thus,  the  eye 

Breathed  on  by  fancy,  with  enlarged  scope, 

Through  the  protracted  and  deep  hush  of  night, 

May  note  the  Jfairies,  coursing  the  lazy  hours, 

In  various  changes,  and  without  fatigue. 

A  fickle  race,  who  tell  their  time  by  flow'rs, 

And  live  on  zephyrs,  and  have  stars  for  lamps, 

And  night-dews  for  ambrosia  ;  perch'd  on  beams, 

Speeding  through  space,  even  with  the  scattering  light 

On  which  they  feed  and  frolic. 

Isab.  A  wild  dream! — 

And  yet,  since  this  old  tale  of  Diaz  Ortis, 
That  moved  our  laughter  once,  is  thus  made  sooth, 
Perchance,  not  all  a  dream. 

Leon.  Yet,  may  we  doubt  !—- 

There  may  be  something  in  this  marvel  still 
Of  human  practice.     Man  hath  wondrous  powers, 
Most  like  a  God  ; — that,  with  each  hour  of  toil, 
Perfect  themselves  in  actions  strangely  great. 
Some  cunning  seaman,  having  natural  skill, 
As  by  the  books  we  learn  hath  oft  been  done, 
Hath  'yond  our  vessel's  figure  pitch'd  his  voice, — 
With  gay  deceit  of  unsuspected  art, 
Leading  us  wantonly. 

Isab,  It  is  not  so  ; — 

Or,  does  my  sense  deceive  1     Look,  where  the  wave 


32  ATALANTIS.  [ACT  II. 

A  perch  beyond  our  vessel,  grows  in  folds 
That  seem  not  like  the  element.     Dost  seel 

Leon.    A  marvellous  shape  that  with  the  billow  curls, 
In  gambols  of  the  deep,  and  yet  is  not 
Its  wonted  burden  ;  for,  beneath  the  waves, 
I  mark  the  elaborate  windings  of  a  form, 
That  heaves  and  flashes  with  an  antic  play, 
As  if  to  win  our  gaze. 

Isab.  Again — it  sings. 

• 

ZEPHYR-SPIRIT. 

I. 

By  the  planet  at  whose  bid. 

I  must  close  the  heavy  lid,' 

Ere  the  hour  that  wings  my  flight 

I  unfold  me  to  your  sight, 

That  your  wondering  thoughts  may  find, 

Something  to  awake  the  mind  ; — 

To  arouse  ye  with  a  fear, 

Do  I  sing  and  wanton  here ; 

Sing  with  sorrow  lest  too  late, 

Ye  awaken  to  your  fate  : 

Hearken  to  my  voice  and  fly, 

For  the  danger  lurketh  nigh. 

II. 

Deem  me  not  a  form  of  ill, 
Free  to  lure  and  injure  still; — 
Mine's  the  gentler  task  to  save 
From  the  perils  of  the  wave. 
When  thou  feePst  the  tempest's  shocks, 
I  send  breezes  off  the  rocks  ; 
When  the  ocean's  calm  as  death, 
From  me  comes  the  tradewind's  breath  ; — 
For  my  essence  is  not  made 
Of  the  cold  and  gloomy  shade, 
But  of  gentlest  dews  of  night, 
And  of  purest  rays  of  light. 

III. 

Heed  me  then,  and  turn  thy  prow 
From  the  rocks  that  wait  thee  now; — 
Close  beneath  thee,  do  they  sleep 
In  the  hollows  of  the  deep  ; 
And  thy  sail  is  truly  prone 
Where  the  yellow  sand  is  strown ; 


SCENE  I.J  ATALANTIS. 

And  no  human  pow'r  can  save 
From  the  terrors  of  the  wave, 
Smooth,  and  gently  gliding,  now, 
With  a  whisper,  round  thy  prow ; 
In  an  hour  and  all  is  o'er — 
Thou  wilt  hear  my  voice  no  more. 

Leon.     'Tis  passing  strange,  and  it  were  well  to  rouse 
The  master  to  this  marvel.     What,  ho  !  there  ! 
Hark  ye,  good  Mendez  Celer,  lend  awhile 
Your  presence  here  on  deck. 

Enter  MENDEZ  CELER.  " 

Mendez.  Who  summons  me  1 

Ha  !  brave  Don  Leon,  but  thou  look'st  as  wild, 
As  thou  hadst  spoke  some  monster  of  the  deep, 
And  shipp'd  his  tidings  in  a  sea  of  foam. 
Had'st  thou  but  weather'd  awhile  the  Indian  seas, 
As  I  have  done,  where,  from  his  fiery  steep, 
El  Norte  plunges  headlong  o'er  the  seas, 
Smiting  the  billows  with  his  scourge  of  wings 
'Till  their  gray  scalps  lie  flat,  methinks  thine  eyes, 
JThat  find  a  wonder  in  each  hour  of  change, 
Would  soon  grow  slow  to  marvel. 

Leon.  It  may  be, — 

Yet  there's  a  marvel  here  to  challenge  well 
Thy  old  experience  in  these  wizard  seas. 
Here  swam  a  voice  that  spoke  to  us  in  song 
Of  most  prevailing  sweetness.     There  it  rose — 
Even  from  yon  heap  of  waters,  which  thou  see'st 
Still  stirring  with  an  action  not  their  own, 
Unlike  the  rest  of  the  ocean.     Thou  may'st  note 
Where  the  sea  rises  and  the  billows  toss, 
Still  swelling  in  strange  folds.     'Tis  there  it  moves, — 
From  thence  the  music  came. 

Men.  What  said  the  scng  ] 

A  ditty  of  the  marvellous  love,  I  ween, 
The  girl  of  the  ocean  bears  thee — was  it  not1? 

Leon.     No,  in  no  wise  ! — the  tones  it  used  were  soft, 
And  the  words  gentle,  and  the  music  sweet, 
But  yet  it  spoke  no  love  and  ask'd  for  none. — 


34  ATALANTIS.  [ACT  II. 

It  rather  told  of  danger  to  our  barque ;  — 

Of  rocks  in  certain  and  near  neighborhood, 

And  shoals  and  sands,  that,  close  beneath  our  prow, 

Are  lurking  to  ensnare. 

Men.  Bah  !  good  Don  Leon  ! 

'Tis,  as  we  say  in  Palos,  a  poor  devil 
That  goes  without  his  brimstone. — A  dull  cheat 
Who  when  he  shows  his  hook  forgets  the  bait. 
Your  sea-girl  was  a  young  one.     Mark  me  now, 
There  is  no  land — no  single  spot  of  shore 
Whereon  a  plank  or  spar  might  lie  at  ease, 
Within  a  five  day's  sail  of  us.     I've  been 
Some  fifty  years  a  mariner,  and  scarce, 
In  all  that  time,  have  been  from  off  the  seas 
A  month  or  two,  at  farthest,  at  a  spell ; 
And  this  same  route  o'er  which  we  travel  now, 
Comes  to  me  as  my  nightcap  or  my  prayers — 
I  put  not  on  the  one,  nor  say  the  other, 
Yet  both  are  done,  the  thanks  to  Mary  Mother, 
And  I  am  none  the  wiser. 

Leon.  It  is  strange  » 

That  we  should  hear  this  music  ! 

Men.  Not  a  whit. 

I've  oftentimes  heard  from  the  Portuguese — 
I'm  rather  one  myself,  belike  you  know, 
My  father  having  stray'd,  at  a  wrong  time, 
From  Lisbon  to  my  mother's  house  at  Palos, 
And  then  it  came  about  that  I  was  born — 
(Nothing  ill-graced  to  Lady  Isabel  ;) 
And,  as  I  say,  it  is  a  standing  tale 
With  the  old  seamen,  that  a  woman  comes — 
Her  lower  parts  being  fishlike — in  the  wave  ; 
Singing  strange  songs  of  love,  that  so  inflame 
The  blinded  seamen,  that  they  steal  away 
And  join  her  in  the  waters  ;  and,  that  then, 
Having  her  victim,  she  is  seen  no  more. 

Leon.    And  is  it  deemed,  the  men  thus  wildly  snared 
Become  a  prey  and  forfeit  life  at  once  1 

Men.    So  must  it  be  ;  and  yet,  there  is  a  tale 


&W-  -  * 

SCENE  I.]  ATALANTIS.  35 

That  they  do  wed  these  creatures  ;  which  have  power, 

So  to  convert  their  nature,  as  to  make, 

As  to  themselves,  the  sea  their  element ; 

And  have  a  life  renew'd,  though  at  the  risk 

And  grievous  peril  of  their  Christian  souls, 

Doom'd  thence  unto  perdition. 

Leon.  And  you  then 

Think  nothing  c  f  this  warning] 

Men.  By  your  grace, 

Surely,  I  hold  it  the  wild  lustful  song 
Of  this  same  woman.     She  has  lost,  perchance, — 
Since  death  must  come  at  last  who  comes  to  all, — 
Her  late  companion.     Would  you  take  his  place  1 
If  not,  wax  up  your  ears,  and  sleep  secure, 
There's  nought  to  fear,  and  sea-room  quite  enough. 

Shock — the  ship  strikes. 
God,  and  thou  gracious  Mary,  what  is  that  ? 

Ship  strikes  again. 
We're  in  our  certain  course — what  may  this  mean'? 

Leon.    The  vessel  strikes — she  strikes  again  and  shivers, 
Through  all  her  frame,  as  if  convulsed  with  horror, 
She  felt  herself  the  pangs  we  soon  must  feel ! 
The  devil  speaks  truth,  for  once,  good  Mendez  Celer ! 

Men.     Oh,  holy  Mary,  and  thou  gracious  shield 
Gentle  Saint  Anthony,  lend  us  now  your  aid  ; 
Speak  fairly  to  the  waters — see  us  through 
This  sad  deceit.    Below  there — hands  aloft !  — 
Ho,  Juan  !  trim  the  sail, — out  with  the  lead — 
Helm  down,  Pedrillo — Hernan — luff  yet  more. 
Jesu  !     She  rides  again — we  yet  may  swim  ! 

Vessel  strikes  heavily  upon  the  rocks. 
It  is  all  over  !     To  your  prayers  at  once  ! 
There  is  no  longer  hope,  nor  chance  of  life, 
Unless  from  the  good  saints  and  Mary  Mother, 
We  may  have  mercy  and  sweet  countenance  ! 

[The  master  takes  a  leaden  image  from  his  hat  and  prostrates 
himself  before  it.     Storm  rises. 


36  ATALANTIS.  [ACT  II. 

';£f  ^•i£~  • 

Gracious  Saint  Anthony,  for  fifty  years 
We've  voyaged  in  company,  and  now, 
I  pray  thee,  in  this  strait,  that  thou  forsake  not, 
Thy  ancient  comrade.     To  thy  use  I  vow — 
If  thou  wilt  man  our  yards,  and  trim  our  sails 
And  lift  our  ragged  keel  from  off  these  rocks, — 
A  box  of  Cadiz  candles 

Leon.  Be  a  man  ! 

Rise,  Mendez,  to  the  peril  and  the  storm. 
Let  us  do  something  for  ourselves,  nor  ask 
The  smiles  of  heaven  upon  our  fears  alone. 
Shall  we  but  crouch  and  perish,  with  no  stroke 
Made  for  our  lives  !     For  shame,  sir — ply  your  men  ; 
Nor  with  an  idle  pray'r  which  the  waves  mock 
And  the  winds  laugh  at,  show  our  feebleness. 
If  there  be  land  so  nigh,  as  by  our  glance, 
The  eye  may  seem  to  conjure,  we  may  try, 
The  little  we  can  do,  to  save  our  lives. 
The  boats — get  out  the  boats  ! 

Men.  In  vain — in  vain ; 

No  boat  may  live  in  such  a  sea  as  that. 
Look  at  this  surf,  that  chafes  like  a  wild  beast, 
And  ramps,  like  something  mad,  upon  the  rocks. 
This  is  the  strangest  chance  I  yet  have  known  : — 
By  the  chart  we  are  in  the  open  sea, 
And  here  we  meet  with  land,  where  land  is  none. 
A  moment  since,  and  the  whole  sea  was  calm, 
Now  boils  it  like  a  cauldron — and  the  winds, 
That  late  were  almost  breathless,  now  exclaim 
In  wrath,  and  yell  like  fiends  above  the  sea. 
Oh,  Mary  Mother,  in  this  strait  befriend  ! — 
To  thee,  to  Jesu,  and  the  saints  alone, 
May  we  now  look  for  mercy  ! 

[Storm  increases.     Shi})  strikes  with  increasing  violence. 

Leon.  So  we  perish  ! — 

The  ship  is  parting  !     We  must  try  the  boat, 
Whate'er  the  peril  from  the  raging  sea  ! 
Better,  thus  struggling  in  the  embrace  of  strife, 


SCENE  I.]  ATALANTIS.  37 

To  meet  the  fatal  enemy,  than  thus, 
With  idly  folded  arms  and  shivering  fears 
That  mock  the  very  passion  in  our  prayer 
With  broken  utterance  most  unmeet  for  heaven, 
Await  him  feebly  here.    Ho  !  man  the  boat. 

Isab.    Leave  me  not,  brother,  for  a  moment  now  t 
There's  not  a  pressing  danger,  or  I  do 
Greatly  mistake  the  courage  in  your  eye, 
That  hath  no  touch  of  terror  in  its  calm, 
And  looks  the  strength  of  safety. 

Leon.  Yet,  there  is,. 

Dear  Isabel,  a  danger  of  the  worst, 
Now  pressing  on  our  lives  with  terrible  wrath, 
That  needs  the  soul's  best  fortitude  and  hope 
To  meet  with  manhood.     We  may  yet  escape, 
So,  take  you  heart.    Look  not  with  such  an  eye, 
Or  I  may  fail  at  this  most  perilous  hour, 
And  sink  into  the  woman.    Be  all  firm, 
And  like  our  mother,  dearest, — nor  grow  weak, 
When  I  do  tell  you  that  the  chances  gather 
Against  our  fondest  hope. 

Isab.  And  is  it  so  ] — 

And  you  and  I,  dear  Leon, — both  so  young, 
So  fond, — so  full  of  life's  best  promises, — 
Thus  sudden  cut  from  all — the  loved,  the  loving, — 
And  by  a  fate  so  terrible. 

Lecn.  Still  hope  !— 

Since  combatting  the  fear  that  ushers  death, 
We  little  feel  his  shaft.     Whatever  haps, 
Be  firm,  and  cling  to  me.    Keep  close  at  hand, 
And,  with  the  mercy  of  God,  through  every  chance, 
Dear  sister,  I  devote  myself  to  thee. 

Isab.    I  know  thou  wilt ! — I  will  be  at  thy  side, 
Nor  trouble  thee  with  my  terrors. 

Leon.  Noble  girl ! 

My  safety  shall  be  thine  ; — and  if  I  fail, 
'Twill  somewhat  soothe  the  pang  of  that  sad  passage 
That  still  we  go  together.    We  have  lived, 
4 


38  ATALANTIS.  [ACT  II. 

So  truly  in  one  another  from  the  first, 
And  known  no  sense  of  pleasure,  not  inwrought, 
With  twin  affection  in  our  mutual  hearts, 
That  'twill  not  move  our  chiding  when  the  fate 
Strikes  both  in  one,  and  with  a  kindly  blow, 
Secures  'gainst  future  parting. 

Isab.  I'll  not  chide  ! 

I  will  be  firm, — and  yet  I  dread  the  rage 
And  rushing  of  the  waters.    How  they  roar, 
And  lash  themselves  to  madness  o'er  our  bows  ! 
I  dread  me,  Leon,  that  my  senses  fail ! 
Mine  eyes  grow  blind — I  see  thee  not — Here,  here  ! 
My  brother,  leave  me  not. 

Leon.  I'm  here  with  thee  1 

Isab.    Dost  hear  me  when  I  speak, — dost  hear  me,  brother? — 
I  cannot  hear  myself.     My  voice  is  gone, 
Drown'd  in  that  horrible  coil  of  storm  and  billow 
That  fain  would  wrap  us  all.     That  crash  ! —  [Shrieks. 

Leon.  Hither ! — 

I  have  thee,  poor  unconscious  ! — child  of  sorrow, 
That  hast  no  farther  feeling  of  thy  wo ! 
Make  way  there. 

Mariner.  The  boat  is  ready,  masters. 

[The  vessel  parts.     The  seamen  enter  the  boat.    Leon  lifts 
Isabel  into  it. 

Men.    Delay  not  now  for  me — bear  off,  bear  off, — 
I  go  in  no  new  craft — my  log's  complete. 
This  is  my  ninetieth  voyage,  and  the  last, 
Though  not  the  longest  or  most  fortunate. 
I  cannot  leave  the  ship — it  is  our  creed — 
Till  she  leaves  me.    We've  sailed  together  long — 
And  if  I  'scaped  the  present,  would  not  much 
Survive  her  reckoning.    Bid  me  well  at  home, 
And  say  the  manner  of  my  death  to  all. 
Tell  old  Bertiaz,  should  you  ever  make 
The  shore  I  never  more  shall  touch  again, 
(He  owns  the  vessel),  that  the  "Arragon" 
(Too  fine  a  name  for  such  a  fate  as  this,) 


SCENE  II.]  ATALANTIS.  39 

Is  Arragon  no  longer.    You  may  say — 
'Twill  do  me  good  in  my  grave— I  died  in  her. 

[They  leave  her — she  goes  to  pieces  in  their  sight. 

SCENE  II. —  The  Boat. 

Mariner.    There,  she  goes  down, — the  master  still  in  her ; 
I  see  him  on  a  spar,  and — now  he  sinks. 
Pull  there  more  freely,  boys.     The  swell  she  makes 
May  trouble  us  greatly.     Fiercely,  all  at  once, 
Mark  you,  Don  Leon,  how  the  waters  leap, 
And  the  seas  whiten.     These  are  ugly  rocks. 

Leon,     The  billows  rush  on  madly,  as  they  were 
Some  battling  armies.     These  are  cruel  waves, 
That,  fastening  on  our  sides,  still  clamber  high, 
More  like  the  forms  of  demons,  dark  and  dread, 
With  fiend  malignity  and  bent  on  wrath, 
Than  billows  of  the  ocean.     We  shall  scarce — 
Unless  good  fortune  and  the  blessed  saints 
Look  kindly  on  us — overcome  the  space, 
Growing  as  we  o'erleap  it,  that,  between, 
Now  keeps  us  from  yon  islet,  which  I  mark, 
Dim,  in  the  distance,  o'er  the  swell  in  front. 
Pray  ye,  strike  full  your  oars  and  all  at  once, 
Cheerly  and  bold,  becoming  fearless  men  ; — 
And,  if  we  live,  God's  blessing  on  your  service, 
But  lack,  ye  shall  not,  your  reward  on  earth. 
My  arm  grows  weary  with  the  weight  upon  't 
Of  this  most  precious  burden  ;  while  a  cloud 
Like  a  thick  pitchy  wall,  right  in  our  way 
Rests  heavily  on  the  waters,  and  denies 
That  I  should  see  beyond.     Give  way,  like  men, 
And  enter  the  deep  darkness  unafraid. 

[  The  boat  disappears. 

SCENE  III. — The  ocean  waste. 

Zephijr  Spirit.    Now,  terribly  to  the  waters  comes  the  form, 
Of  that  fierce  savage  and  malignant  king, 
Onesimarch.    Behind  him  gathering  rush, 


40  ATALANTIS.  [ACT  I 

Clouds  of  his  brutal  followers,  clad  in  wrath, 

Howling  for  prey.    Beneath  their  vexing  spells 

The  deep  boils  like  a  whirlpool,  and  the  waves, 

So  lately  still  and  placid,  wrought  to  rage, 

Leap  up  about  the  poor  ill-fated  barque. 

Now  grappling  to  her  prow,  they  drag  her  down, 

The  billows  rushing  in  ;  and,  wrapt  in  each, 

Some  of  the  monster's  followers,  well  conceal'd, 

With  fierce  and  furious  might,  impel  her  down ; — 

Now  mount  her  bending  sides,  now  strike  with  force 

Their  own,  against  her  weak  and  shrieking  ribs — 

Tear  up  her  planks,  and  rushing  through  the  space, 

Rend  her  broad  back,  and  o'er  the  flinty  rocks 

Drag  the  too  yielding  keel  until  it  parts. 

Onesimarch,  himself,  a  hungry  fiend, 

With  darker  powers  endow'd,  with  sulphur  arm'd, 

Hurls  a  perpetual  lightning,  which  distracts 

And  dazzles  the  weak  eye.    He  shapes  their  course, 

And  guides  the  tribute  legions  ;  working  new  joys 

From  out  the  wrongs  he  doth,  for  his  own  sense, 

And  for  that  potentest  of  all  the  fiends, 

By  whom  his  power  is  wrought.    And  now,  they  chant 

A  song  of  terror  in  the  drowning  ears 

Of  the  wild  seamen,  cutting  off  all  hope 

That  manhood  may  achieve  against  its  fate. 

SCENE  IV.— The  Same. 

Storm.    Flight  of  Sea-Demons,  singing. 

I. 

Fly,  let  us  fly, 
Through  the  perilous  sky, 
Angels  of  terror  and  tumult  on  high  ; 

As  the  ship  glides 
Through  the  treacherous  tides, 
Break  down  her  bulwarks  and  rush  through  her  sides. 

II. 

Why,  tell  us  why, 
Breathing  the  sky,' 
Should  they  still  offer  orisons  on  high ; 


SCENE  IV.]  ATALANTIS.  41 

Why  should  they  pray, 
Creatures  of  clay, 
Whose  hope  is  a  fancy,  whose  life  is  a  day. 

Ill, 

Forth,  lo,  where  forth, 
Rides  from  the  north, 
The  prince  of  sea-demons,  the  monarch  of  worth ; 

Here,  at  our  need, 
With  the  storm  for  his  steed, 
The  dreadful  in  might  and  the  matchless  in  speed. 

IV. 

Come,  brothers,  come, 
Join  for  their  doom, 
While  the  Tempest-God  rolls  on  his  storm-beaten  drum ; 

Mortals  prepare, 
For  the  hour  is  near, 
When  ours  is  the  triumph  and  yours  the  despair. 

CHORUS  OF  DEMONS. 

From  the  regions  south  and  the  regions  north, 

Mount  ye,  and  speed  ye,  and  hurry  ye  forth ; 

From  where  the  sun  fails,  in  the  putrid  gales, 

Launch  ye  abroad  on  your  shadowy  sails  ;— 

Onesimarch  leaps,  from  the  fathomless  deeps, 

Where  still  as  the  prince  of  the  demons  he  keeps ; — 

Darkening  the  skies  as  onward  he  hies, 

To  the  doom  of  the  mortal,  with  terror  he  flies; 

Haste  ye  and  come,  join  in  the  doom, 

Rousing  your  legions  in  tempest  and  gloom, 

We  feast  on  the  terrors  ot  man,  and  we  cheer, 

With  a  triumph  that  grows  with  his  grief  and  despair. 

[Demons  pass  onward. 

SCENE  V.—The  Boat. 

Mariner.    Master,  we  strive  in  vain. 

Leon.  We  can  but  die. 

Mar.     Why  toil  for  it  1 

Leon.  As  one  who  strikes  his  foe, 

Though  conscious  that  he  battles  without  hope, 
And  dies  in  the  brave  conflict. — Ha  !  she  stirs. 

Isab.     [recovering.]     Horrible  sounds  are  rushing  through 

mine  ears, 

More  like  the  cries  of  demons,  mad  for  blood, 
4* 


42  ATALANTIS.  [ACT  II. 

Than  the  hoarse  billows  and  the  roaring  winds. 
They  dart  into  my  brain,  and  seem  to  shout, 
Triumphant,  oh,  my  brother,  o'er  our  fate  ;  — 
Speak  of  the  sorrow  in  our  father's  halls, 
That,  with  an  anguish,  far  too  great  for  speech, 
Grows  dumb  and  scorns  expression.     Could  we  live — 
But  live  to  see  him  once  ! — oh,  bear  me  up ; — 
Desert  me  not,  dear  Leon,  but  entwine, 
Closely,  thy  arm  around  ;  nor  let  these  waves, 
That  seem  impatient  of  their  midnight  feast, 
Suck  me  into  their  black  and  ravenous  jaws. 

Leon.    Doubt  me  not,  Isabel,  in  this  dark  hour  ! 
Think'st  thou  I  could  desert  thee,  precious  sweetness, 
To  whose  frail  nature  and  too  delicate  youth 
Sweet  elements  should  minister  with  love, 
Not  hunt  with  hate.     I  have  thee  in  my  arms  ; 
Will  hold  thee,  while  they  have  their  hold  in  life, 
And  I  have  thought  and  sense  to  will  the  struggle 
That  wards  the  final  danger  from  thy  breast. 
But,  cling  to  me,  my  sister. 

Isab.  Will  I  not  1 

Why  should  we  think  of  death  1 

Mar.  It  comes  !     It  comes  ! 

[  The  boat  strikes  and  goes  to  pieces. 

Leon.    Isabel, — sister  ! 
Isab.     [faintly  afar  ojf.}     Here,  Leon,,  here  ! 
Leon.  Oh,  Jesu  !  lost ! 

[Scene  closes.] 

SCENE  VI. — The  Ocean  waste. 

Zephyr- Spirit.    'Tis  done !  The  strife  is  over.  Hope  is  none  ! 
These  cruel  demons  triumph,  with  a  rage 
That  mocks  at  mortal  strength.     Prone  to  the  deep, 
I  watch'd  that  hungry  slave,  Calemmia,  seize, 
Conceal'd  in  a  dense  billow,  on  the  prow  ; 
And,  all  despite  the  seaman's  sturdy  stroke, 
The  helmsman's  firm  direction,  and  the  cheer 


SCENE  I.]  ATALANTIS.  43 

Of  that  strong  human  impulse,  which  did  grow, 

Upon  the  sight  of  land,  into  a  hope  ; 

Drag  her  among  the  sharp  rocks,  while  the  surfs 

Beat  her  to  pieces.     She  is  scattered  far — 

A  spar  floats  on  the  wave — a  single  oar, 

Cast  high  among  the  sands,  alone  has  reach'd 

The  mocking  shores  that  wreck'd  them.     Yet,  not  so ! — 

I  mark  a  floating  form  that  struggles  still, 

With  a  most  human  love  of  life,  afar. 

Him  may  I  succor,  and,  with  safety  now  ; — 

The  legions  of  Onesimarch,  being  done- 

Their  toil  of  terror,  have,  for  newer  spoils, 

Wrapt  in  a  gathering  cloud,  departed  hence, 

Leaving  all  calm  again.     CurPd  in  this  wave, 

I  will  beneath  him  glide,  and  bear  him  up  ; 

'Till,  on  the  shore,  beyond  the  ocean's  swell, 

He  rests  in  safety.     I  can  do  no  more — 

Since,  in  gross  contact  with  the  heavy  earth, 

I  lose  the  subtle  power  that  makes  my  gift, 

And  forfeit,  of  the  light  ethereal  nature, 

The  buoyant  spirit  that  supplies  its  wing. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. —  The  islet  of  ONESIMARCHUS. 

ATALANTIS,  NEA. 

Atal     This  islet  hath  no  quality  of  joy, 
Fair  to  the  sight,  or  fragrant  to  the  sense, — 
No  beauty  that  upon  its  surface  glows, 
No  treasure  that  within  its  bosom  sleeps  ; — 
It  is  the  foul'st  deception — all  is  gross, 
And  tainted  with  that  sinborn  leprousness 
That  marks  the  soul  who  will'd  it  into  birth,. 


44  ATALANTIS.  [ACT  III. 

And  raised  its  treacherous  rocks  along  the  deep. 

No  innocent  beast  hath  dwelling  in  this  clime, 

No  valley  blooms  with  verdure.     Not  a  flower, 

Gerns  the  bleak  sands,  that,  barrenly  spread  out, 

Pain  the  unsatisfied  and  wandering  eye, 

That,  seeing  nought  else,  grows  weary.     Not  a  bird 

But,  as  he  flies  above,  subdues  his  voice, 

And,  panting  in  his  silence,  quickens  his  wing, 

Having  a  nameless  terror.     The  foul  taint 

That  poisons  all  things  in  this  tyrant's  sway, 

Takes  from  them  all  their  virtue.     Not  a  shrub 

Breathes  fragrance  to  the  breeze,  whose  whisper'd  plaint 

Would  woo  it  still  to  fondness.     Not  an  air 

Enters  these  bounds,  but  flags  and  settles  down 

Clumsy  and  wingless  ;  and  the  very  stars, 

Do  seem  to  leave  their  places  in  the  heavens, 

Looking  down  on  it.     Even  we,  who  are 

Of  a  tenacious  temper,  yielding  nought, — 

If  that,  our  hearts  be  pure  and  souls  be  firm — 

To  the  capricious  influence, — we  lose 

Something  of  that  refined  and  subtler  sense, 

Which  gives  us  power  to  meet  and  match  the  sway 

Of  his  low  cunning  and  detested  art. 

How  heavy  is  this  silence  !     What  a  spell, 

Comes,  with  the  sullen  muttering  of  the  winds, 

Now  sweeping  from  the  waters  ;  and,  how  sad 

Are  the  faint  murmurs  of  yon  moaning  sea, 

In  the  far  distance  chiding,  as  in  grief, 

For  some  new  stroke  of  sorrow.     All  things  yield — 

So  it  would  seem — a  something  to  the  spell, 

That  makes  his  power,  and  keeps  us  captive  here  ; 

Wrapping  us  in  a  circle,  not  to  move, 

Or  strive,  lest  it  undoes  us.     The  shrill  scream 

Of  one  poor  gull,  that,  o'er  the  whiten'd  foam, 

Hung  with  gray  wing  suspended,  breaks  no  more, 

Fitfully  on  the  ear  ; — and  all  of  life, 

Seems  resolute  to  pay  its  offering  now, 

To  that  dread  silence,  which,  in  human  sense, 

Makes  up  the  all  of  death  ! 


SCENE  I.]  ATALANTIS.  45 

Nea.  Even  as  them  say'st ! — 

'Tis  a  sad  spot,  fair  mistress  ;  sad  for  us, 
That  have  been  wont,  in  finer  element, 
To  drink  the  nurture  of  a  better  lot. 
Ah !  how  unlike  the  sweet  life  of  the  light, 
Blessing  the  fair  dominion  thou  hast  lost; — 
Lost  for  a  season  only, — yet  too  long, 
Since  such  a  dwelling  as  we  find  perforce, 
Subdues  the  heart  to  sorrows  not  its  own, 
Which  still  must  bide  in  memory.     I  feel 
How  dreary  is  the  labor  of  restraint, 
This  watching,  waiting, — when  my  wonted  use, 
Would  have  me  winging  an  unlicensed  flight, 
Now  in  the  embracing  air,  now  through  the  deeps, 
Disparting  their  white  billows  night  and  morn. 
With  no  more  pause  than  to  adjust  my  plumes, 
Ruffled  by  zephyrs  ;  then,  with  fresh  device, 
Soaring  in  wilder  progress, — sea  and  sky, 
Our  ample  field,  arid  the  delighted  tribes, 
Their  habitants,  come  forth  to  share  the  chase. 

Atal.     And  lack'st  thou  now  all  wonted  qualities — 
Thy  dance,  thy  song,  whose  melodies  can  make 
The  mad  seas  sleep  when  wildest,  while  the  winds 
Hold  up  their  cloudy  vans  to  hear  thy  lay  1 
Hast  thou  no  strains  to  fit  these  drowsy  hours 
With  wings  of  light  and  fragrance,  while  the  thought 
Grows  wanton  and  forgetful  of  the  grief 
That  burden'd  it  with  gloom  ]     Methinks, 
'Twere  in  thy  happy  spells  of  verse  to  find 
Some  carol  of  our  own  domain,  to  take 
The  impatient  soul,  and  in  delicious  dews, 
Steep  the  fine  sense  to  sweet  forgetfulness. 
Sing  me  some  ditty  from  our  Mergevan, 
While  every  flower,  in  gardens  of  the  past, 
Our  hands  have  ever  gathered,  the  young  page, 
Whose  name  is  Memory,  faithful  to  his  task, 
Shall  bring  anew  to  joy  us  in  our  need. 
Give  me  the  song  the  Flow'r-Spirit  once  framed, 
When,  through  our  gardens,  far  beneath  the  sea, 


46  ATALANTIS.  [ACT  III. 

Wall'd  in  by  wildest  waters,  we  pursued, 
For  the  first  time,  the  summer  festival. 

SONG  OF  THE  FLOWER-SPIRIT. 

I. 

I  am  the  spirit  that  sleeps  in  the  flower, 

Mine  is  the  music  of  fragrance  that  flies, 
When  silence  and  moonlight  are  dressing  each  bow'r, 

That  blooms  in  the  favor  of  tropical  skies : 
I  win  the  bird  with  new  melody  glowing, 

To  rise  with  the  zephyr,  and  warble  his  strain  ; 
And  mine  is  the  odor,  in  turn,  that  bestowing, 

The  minstrel  is  paid  for  his  music  again. 

II. 

Sorrow  comes  never  where  I  am  abiding, 

The  tempests  are  strangers  and  far  from  us  rove, 
I  woo  the  zephyrs  too  hurriedly  riding, 

And  gently  they  linger  and  fill  us  with  love. 
They  pause,  and  we  glow  in  their  winning  embraces  ; 

They  drink  our  warm  breath,  rich  with  odor  and  song ; 
Then  hurry  away  to  their  desolate  places, 

And  look  for  us  hourly,  and  mourn  for  us  long. 

III. 
We  were  born  of  the  dews,  and  our  destiny  found  us, 

Embraced  by  a  sunbeam,  all  budding  and  bright, 
On  its  wing,  came  from  heaven,  the  color  that  crown'd  us 

And  the  odor  that  makes  us  a  living  delight. 
And  when  the  warm  glories  of  summer  stream  on  us, 

Our  winglets  of  silk  we  unfold  to  the  air; 
Leaping  upward  in  joy  to  the  spirit  that  won  us, 

And  made  us  the  tenants  of  dwellings  so  fair. 

Atal.    The  ocean  hath  no  calm  like  what  is  here — 
And,  if  the  waters  might  unfold  to  us, 
There  hath  been  recent  strife  upon  their  waves. 
Here  come  its  tokens.    These  are  broken  spars 
From  some  tall  ship,  that  lately  sped  along, 
As  oft-times  I  have  seen  them,  with  a  grace 
And  majesty,  becoming  in  a  queen, 
Ruling  a  thousand  seas.     It  is  a  game, 
Onesimarch  delights  in,  to  destroy, 
The  goodly  creatures  that  do  dwell  in  them — 
Shaped  like  ourselves,  though  little  taught  to  cope, 
In  knowledge  with  ourselves.     Inferior  things 


SCENE  I.J  ATALANTIS.  47 

Of  lower  grade,  who,  when  we  have  become, 
The  tenants  and  possessors  of  a  realm, 
Now  far  beyond  our  state,  shall  rise  to  ours, 
As  we  enjoy  it  now.     But  what  is  here, 
Grasping  a  shaft  and  lifelessly  spread  out  ? 

[Seeing  the  body  of  LEON. 

Nea.    One  of  the  creatures  of  that  goodly  barque, — 
Perchance,  the  only  one  of  many  men, 
That,  from  their  distant  homes,  went  forth  in  her, 
And  here  have  perish'd. 

Atal.  There  is  life  in  him  ; — 

His  bosom  swells,  methinks,  beneath  my  hand, — 
With  fitful  pulse — most  faint — now  here — now  gone  ! 
Alas  !  I  fear  it  may  not  come  again. 
How  very  young  he  is — how  beautiful — 
Made  with  a  matchless  sense  of  what  is  true, 
In  manly  grace  and  mortal  elegance  ; 
And  features,  rounded  in  as  soft  a  mould, 
As  our  own,  Nea. 

Nea.  His  eye  unfolds. 

Atal.  Ah ! 

Stand  aside,  girl,  and  let  me  look  on  him. 
I  see  not  that  he  wakes. 

JVea.  But  now  he  did. 

Atal.    Alas  !  he  sleeps  in  death  !     How  pitiful 
That  one  so  young,  and  princely  in  his  port, 
Should  fall  so  soon  a  victim,     He  hath  been, 
I  doubt  not,  a  great  noble  with  his  people. 
How  should  it  be  that  such  a  form  as  this, 
So  lovely  and  commanding  in  its  aspect, 
Should  rank  below  the  people  of  our  race '? 
Methinks  he  is  a  creature,  that,  in  life, 
Might  stand  compared  with  any  of  our  chiefs. 
JVea.     At  least,  in  outward  seeming. 
Atal.  And  this  speaks, — 

Where  still  the  brow  is  lofty,  and  the  form 
Familiar,  in  erect  and  graceful  carriage, — 
For  that  which  guides  within. 

Nea.  He  looks  well ; — 


48  ATALANTIS.  [ACT  III. 

Yet  may  he  be  a  thing  of  seeming  only, 
Wanting  in  all  that  higher  sense  of  soul, 
Which  makes  the  virtue  of  true  excellence. 

Atal.     Oh  !  I  am  sure  there  is  no  want  in  him  ; 
The  spirit  must  be  true,  the  sense  supreme, 
The  soul  as  far  ascending,  strong  and  bright, 
As  is  the  form  they  do  inhabit  in 
Breathe  on  him,  Nea ;  fan  him  with  thy  wing 
And  rouse  him,  if  thou  canst.     Oh  !  could  I  bring 
The  life  into  his  cheek.     Stay,  yet  awhile  ; — 
Now,  while  his  senses  sleep,  I'll  place  my  lip 
Upon  his  own — it  is  so  beautiful ! 
Such  lips  should  give  forth  music — such  a  sweet 
Should  have  been  got  in  heaven, — the  produce  there, 
Of  never  blighted  gardens.  [Kisses  Mm. 

Leon,  [starts]  Cling  to  me — 
Am  I  not  with  thee  now,  my  Isabel !  [Swoons  again. 

Atal.     Oh,  gentle  sounds — how  sweetly  did  they  fall, 
In  broken  murmurs,  like  a  melody, 
From  lips,  that  waiting  long  on  loving  hearts, 
Had  learn'd  to  murmur  like  them.     Wake  again, 
Sweet  stranger  !     If  my  lips  have  wrought  this  spell, 
And  won  thee  back  to  life,  though  but  to  sigh, 
And  sleep  again  in  death, — they  shall,  once  more, 
Wake  and  restore  thee. 

Nea.  You  arouse  him  not. 

Atal.    Alas  !  should  life's  string,  overstrained,  be  crack'd, 
No  more  to  be  reknit,  I  forfeit  peace 
Forever, — never  more  to  hope  for  joy 
In  any  life  that  follows. 

Nea.  Oh  !  my  mistress, 

This  passion  of  grief — 

Atal.  Nea,  now  at  last, 

I  feel  that  I  do  love  !     The  sudden  fire 
Kindles  at  last,  where  never  yet  before, 
Its  spark  found  nurture.    If  it  be  in  vain  ! — 
I,  that  had  scorn'd  the  suppliant  before, 
I  too,  must  be  the  suppliant  for  a  love, 
That's  born  without  a  hope.    The  lesson  comes 


SCENE  I.J  ATALANTIS.  49 

Too  late,  and  I  have  but  to  weep  o'er  dreams 
That  have  no  waking  promise  for  the  heart, 
And  leave  it  but  to  tears.     Alas  !  alas  ! 

[  Throws  herself  upon  LEON,. 

Nea.     Oh  !  yield  not  thus,  my  mistress,  to  a  passion 
That  never  can  be  blest.     The  best  of  love 
Still  teaches  sorrow  as  his  natural  gift, 
More  sure  than  precious. 

Atal.  Know  you  ought  of  love  I 

Nea.    As  of  a  power  that 's  best  esteemed  in  fancy r, 
In  which  he  more  abides  than  in  the  heart. 
Love's  but  an  artful  tyrant.    He  first  wins 
By  the  most  servile  flatteries.     He  can  stoop 
The  better  to  ascend ;  and  pliant  grows, 
When  most  the  secret  purpose  in  his  soul, 
Makes  him  unyielding.    Pleasant  is  his  prayer  ; — 
He  will  discourse  you  in  the  dove's  own  note, 
Cooing  and  plaining,  with  euch  murmur'd  sweets, 
That  pity  learns  to  take  the  place  of  doubt, 
And  paves  the  way  for  trust.    But,  wait  awhile, 
And  soon  his  habit  changes.     He  grows  apt, — 
Learns  the  new  lesson  his  condition  makes, 
As  readily  as  the  old ;  and,  sure  of  power, 
Firm,  with  free  footing  walks,  where  late  he  crept. 
Then,  see  you  heed  the  master  ; — who  will  now 
Claim,  for  his  right,  that  which  he  lately  sued, 
As  the  poor  meed  of  charity;  and  thus 
Step  by  step  upward,  with  insidious  art, 
And  cunning  most  unequal'd,  doth  he  rise 
Untill  you  find  your  neck  beneath  his  foot, 
And  you  become  his  slave,  who  once  was  yours. 

Atal.     Oh  !  terrible, — where  heard  you  this  of  love! 

Nea.    From  many  teachers. 

Atal.  Did  they  know  him  well  ? 

They  slander  him,  methinks. 

Nea.  They  suffer'd  first ! 

Our  minstrels  note  him  thus  ! — Our  maidens  taught 
By  many  a  hapless  lesson,  thus  describe, 
His  art  and  empire.    They  do  further 'tell, 
5 


50  ATALANTIS.  [ACT  III. 

Beyond  his  tyrant  habits,  that  his  sweets 

Are  few  and  failing.    Painful,  do  they  say, 

Are  even  the  creature's  pleasures,  since  they  wake 

Such  doubts  and  dread  misgiving  for  their  loss, 

As  even  their  joys  can't  equal.    The  sick  soul, 

That  grieves  with  love's  delusions,  evermore  dreams 

Dreading  its  losses.    It  forever  makes 

A  gloomy  cloud  to  gather  in  the  sky, 

And  glooms  the  spirit.    Looking  far  beyond 

The  glory  in  its  gaze,  it  sadly  sees 

Countless  privations,  and  far-coming  storms, 

Shrinking  from  what  it  conjures.     Let  them  say 

Green  youth  and  greener  maidens,  as  they  may, 

Of  love  and  of  his  raptures  : — for  my  part, 

I  hold  him  a  disease — a  very  ache, 

And  ague-fever,  sore  and  troublesome  ; 

Apt  caller  forth  of  tears,  and  wails,  and  plaints, 

And  then  of  colds,  and  heats,  and  phantasies — 

Realities  most  mournful,  and,  forsooth, 

Imaginings,  whose  strange  complexions  be 

Not  a  whit  kinder.    Love's  a  sorry  slave, 

And  a  sad  master.     As  a  slave,  he  steals 

The  jewel  of  our  nature,  and  its  lights, — 

The  heart  and  its  affections  ; — which,  having  got, 

He  straight  assumes  the  master: — they,  in  turn, 

Being  his  willing  instruments  and  doom'd, 

When  that  the  tyrant  of  his  play  grows  sick, 

To  be  the  creature's  victims  at  the  last. 

Atal.    I  cannot  think  this  truly  said  of  love  ! — 
The  minstrels  do  belie  him,  much,  methinks, 
For  envy  of  his  conquests  ;  and,  the  maids — 
They  only  do  complain,  whom  he  doth  slight. 
They  never  knew  his  nature.     They,  perchance — 
Since  what  is  winning  still  hath  counterfeits — 
Have  seen  some  subtle  semblance  of  his  form, 
His  true  spirit  all  being  wanting;  and  were  made, 
Haply,  the  victims  of  some  wanton  art, 
That  hath  betray'd  them.    It  were  wisdom  poor, 
And  a  most  sad  philosophy,  to  scorn 


SCENE  I.]  ATALANTIS.  51 

The  blessing,  as  in  nature's  exigence, 
It  might  grow  forfeit.     Better,  with  this  rule, 
Not  live,  since  in  the  end  we  all  must  die. 
Though  there  be  doubts  that  love  may  yet  be  lost, 
Still  let  me  love  ; — the  very  doubt  but  shows 
The  worth  of  the  possession.     Not  for  me 
The  sway  of  kingdoms  only.    In  my  heart 
There  still  hath  been  a  void — a  vacant  place, 
That  ever  seemed  to  crave  some  image  there, 
Set  up  for  worship.     'Till  this  happy  hour, 
The  shrine  hath  been  unoccupied  and  cold; 
Now,  doth  the  warmth  of  a  divinity 
Suffuse  the  reluctant  nature,  and  I  glow 
In  the  superior  consciousness  of  hopes, 
That  fill  me  with  devotion.     Here  is  one 
Might  teach  me  wherefore  this. 

Nea.  He  breathes  again ; 

There's  life  within  him  yet. — His  lips,  they  part 
In  murmurs  : — he  will  live.     Shall  we  now  leave  him  ] 

Atal     Leave  him,  dost  thou  ask  1  alas  !  my  Nea, 
I  cannot  if  I  wculd  !     His  image  takes 
Possession  of  the  waste  place  in  my  soul, 
And  fills  me  with  himself.     Whether  I  go, 
Or  stay, — the  fates  forbid  that  we  should  part ; — 
And  known,  perchance,  and  loved  too  late,  he  still 
Has  grown  to  such  a  presence  in  my  thought, 
That,  though  I  lose  him  in  the  hour  that  finds, 
I  lose  him  not  from  love.     Still,  let  us  call 
The  life  into  his  cheek.     Some  water  bring, 
Scooped  out  from  yonder  fountain  near  the  sea. 
Now,  fan  him  with  thy  pinions.     See,  his  lips, — 
Again  they  part,  how  sweetly! — and  again, 
I  stoop  to  press  them  with  my  own  that  burn 
With  a  strange  fervor  never  felt  before. 
He  wakes, — Ah  !  me,  he  wakes  !     His  eyes  unclose, 
With  a  dim  beauty.     As  they  open,  mine 
Sink  to  the  sands.     I  feel  his  glances  still, 
Stealing  and  searching  through  my  throbbing  heart, 
Until  it  hath  no  secret.     Doth  he  speak  ] 


52  ATALANTIS.  [ACT  III. 

What  says  he,  my  sweet  Nea  1 

Leon.     [Struggling  to  his  feet.}  Nay,— no  more  !— 

Ah  !  sister  is  it  thou  !     That  terrible  thought 
That  thou  wert  swallow'd  in  the  ravenous  sea, 
And  the  waves  over  thee  !     I  saw  thee  sink — 
Beheld  thy  outstretch'd  arms — heard  thy  wild  cry 
For  succor,  that  I  strove  in  vain  to  give, — 
And,  struggling  in  the  surf,  'gainst  cruel  hands, 
That  kept  me  from  thee  in  the  fearful  hour, 
I  yielded  thee  as  lost. — I  have  thee  now — 
We  shall  not  part  again.  [Embracing  ATALANTIS 

Atal  Ah!  — 

Leon.     [Discovering  Tier.]  Who  art  thou  1 

Where  is  rny  sister — give  her  to  my  arms ; 
Why  dost  thou  keep  her  from  me  when  I  call) 

Atal    Oh  !  look  not  thus  upon  me,  gentle  youth  : 
I  have  not  done  thee  wrong. 
Leon.  My  sister  ] 

Atal  She— 

I  know  not. — 

Leon.  Alas  !  alas  !  for  me ! — I  am  alone. 

Atal    Oh !  not  alone,  for  though  we  know  not  her, 
The  sister  thou  hast  lost,  we'll  seek  for  her, 
And  strive  to  bring  her  to  thy  love  again. 
We  too  will  love  thee,  if  thou'lt  suffer  us, 
And  claim  thy  love  in  turn. 

Leon.  Where  am  I  then  ? 

Oh  !  tell  me,  noble  lady,  tell  me  true, 
What  is  the  shore  we  stand  on — where  the  ship 
That  bore  us — the  old  master,  and  the  men, — 
And  over  all  of  these,  the  precious  maid, 
My  sister,  whom  I  swore  to  save  from  harm, 
While  strength  was  in  my  arms  to  strive  for  her. 
Alas  !  that  I  am  here,  with  life  and  strength, 
And  she — thou  look's!  as  thou  hadst  love  and  truth, — 
Spare  me  these  pangs — withhold  her  not  from  me, — 
I  shall  not  sink  into  an  agony, 
Joy-troubled  at  her  sight.     I'm  strong  to  bear, 
This  happiness,  if  thou  hast  it  to  bestow, 


SCENE  I.]  ATALANTIS.  5&" 

And  take  my  blessing  for  it.     Give  her  me  ! 

Atal    Alas  !  thou  plead'st  to  me,  dear  youth,  in  vain  ; 
I  know  not  of  the  gentle  maid  you  seek. 
Thou  only,  of  the  creatures  of  the  ship, 
Hast  found  the  refuge  of  the  shore. 

Leon.  She's  gone,' — 

And  I  survive  her  !     How  can  I  survive  ] 
With  what  a  terror  she  entreated  me, 
Never  to  leave  her  ;  and  I  pledged  my  soul, 
If  I  had  power  to  save,  she  should  not  sink, 
Or  I  should  share  her  fate.     My  Isabel ! 
I  could  not  save,  and  cannot  now  survive  ;  — 
I  come  to  thee, — I  come  !  [Rushes  toward  the  sea 

Atal  Forbear  !     Forbear  ! 

Oh  !  be  not  not  thus  the  murderer  of  thyself, 
When  heaven's  own  voice  hath  ordered  thee  to  live. 
For  my  sake  as  for  thine  !     I  kneel  to  thee. 
Do  not  this  wrong  unto  thyself,  I  pray, 
Nor  to  the  memory  of  the  maid  thou  griev'st, 
Who,  if  she  loved  thee,  never  could  be  blest, 
At  this,  thy  woful  sacrifice.     Oh!  hear  ! 
Let  me  implore.    Thy  sister  yet  may  live, 
Cast  on  some  other  isle,  as  thou  on  this. 
We'll  seek  her  hence  together,  with  a  hope 
That  we  may  find  her  on  the  yellow  sands, 
And  win  her  back  to  life. 

Leon.  Oh  !  sweet  thy  words  ! 

I  will  believe  thee,  lady,  with  a  hope 
That  comes  on  golden  pinions  ;  for  thine  eye 
Tells  of  a  true  sense  prompting  thee  to  speak, 
In  mercy,  with  a  blessing  won  from  truth  ; 
While  in  thy  voice  a  delicate  music  lies, 
Spelling  all  sympathies  that  fill  the  heart. 
Say,  who  art  thou  1 

Atal,  My  name  is  Atalantis. 

I  am  a  Princess  of  the  ocean  waste, 
But  now  a  prisoner  on  this  cruel  isle, 
Which,  raised  by  magic  from  the  hidden  deep, 
Wreck'd  thee  and  fetters  me.    I  have  the  sway 
5* 


54  ATALANTIS.  [ACT  IH. 

Of  a  large  ocean  empire  which,  in  fiight, 

Extends  beyond  the  sight,  and  far  bene.Uh 

In  winding  ways  and  valleys  of  the  sea. 

I  keep  no  state,  but,  as  a  captive,  pine 

In  sight  of  my  own  kingdom,  in  the  power, 

Of  a  dread  monarch  of  the  demon  race, 

A  mighty  potentate  who  keeps  me  here, 

Seeking  my  love. 

Leon.  How  fell  you  in  his  power  ] 

Atal    'Twere  a  long  speech  to  tell  you  of  our  realms, 

The  sway  that's  mine  and  his  respectively, 

And  the  slight  space  betwixt  us  ;  or  to  dwell 

On  the  opposing  powers  we  each  possess  : 

It  is  enough,  sweet  youth,  that  yestermorn, 

I  and  this  maiden,  o'er  the  quiet  sea, 

Idly  disporting  in  our  innocence, 

Pass'd  from  our  own  dominions  into  his  ; 

When,  straightway  he, — being  ever  on  the  watch, 

And  all  unmatch'd  for  cunning — rais'd  this  isle, 

At  once,  beneath  us.     In  this  sudden  strait, 

Frighted,  I  cast  aside  my  magic  wand, 

Without  which,  I  am  nothing  ;  and,  with  joy, 

Knowing  its  powers,  this  monster  seized  it  then, 

And  keeps  me  now  his  captive,  close  fenced  in 

By  thickest  spells,  which,  circling  all  this  isle, 

And  having  with  our  fine  sense  deadly  hate, 

We  may  not  pass,  unless  he  wills  it  so, 

Or  I  regain  my  wand-     Could  that  be  done, 

Its  pow'r  is  such  that  I  could  sink  this  isle, 

And,  with  one  stroke  in  air  undo  the  spells 

Of  his  foul-brew'd  enchantment. 
Leon.  It  is  strange  ! 

Methinks,  I  wander  in  the  Arabian  tale, 

And  wear  the  enchanted  ring. — This  demon  king — 

Where  is  his  castle  where  he  harbors  now  ? 

I  would  behold  him,  and  do  battle  for  you. 

I  am  a  knight  of  Spain,  well  known  in  arms, 

And  wear  the  honors  of  the  noblest  courts, 

Shining  in  Christendie. 


SCENE  I.]  ATALANTIS.  55 

Atal  The  arms  you  wield, 

In  fight  with  such  as  he,  would  nothing  serve : 
He  deals  in  subtlest  magic,  and  receives 
Spells  from  gigantic  spirits.     'Twas  his  pow'r 
Aroused  the  storm  that  overthrew  your  barque  ; 
And  now,  on  like  employment  bent,  he  speeds 
Afar  upon  the  ocean,  with  a  host 
Of  most  malignant  followers  in  his  train, 
Rank  for  destruction.     Could  I  get  my  wand, 
In  which  a  power  of  mightiest  strength  abides, 
I'd  battle  him  myself,  and  drive  him  back, 
And  whelm  the  barren  isle  which  keeps  us  now ! 
Nay,  more  than  this, — if  that  thy  sister  sleeps 
Beneath  the  waters, — though  I  may  not  win 
Her  spirit  back  to  life — with  that  same  wand, 
We  both  may  penetrate  the  tumbling  waves, 
Without  or  hurt  or  harm, — with  vision  free, 
To  find  her  gentle  beauties  where  they  rest 
On  quiet  beds  of  flowers  beneath  the  deep. 
There,  with  our  magic  art  may  we  enwrap 
Her  fragile  beauty  in  protecting  spells, 
That  still  her  eyes  shall  shine  as  when  in  life, 
Her  cheeks  still  glow  with  love's  own  red, — her  lips, 
Though  they  no  more  with  many  a  tone  of  joy, 
Made  soft  by  feeling,  whisper  in  your  ears, — 
Still  look  the  sweetness  they  have  ever  worn, 
Keeping  the  wonted  freshness  that  they  knew, — 
When  first  they  grew  to  thine.     This  shall  we  do, 
And  more,  that  nothing  that  thy  sense  may  seek, 
Shall  lack  to  make  her  lovely. 

Leon.  Gentle  Queen, 

If  this  be  so, — do  with  me  as  thou  wilt. — 
I  am  thy  slave, — thy  slave  ! 

Atal.  Rather  I  thine  ! 

If  thou  wilt  love  me,  this  will  I  perform ; 
Nay,  though  thou  love  me  not,  1  still  will  do  it, 
For  love  I  have  for  thee. 

Nea.     [Aside.]  No  more  a  Queen  ! 

How  doth  she  yield  horself  unto  this  power, 
Forgetting  her  dominion. 


56  ATALANTIS.  [ACT  III. 

Leon.  Gentle  Queen, 

Shall  we  not  get  possession  of  this  wand? 
Methinks  that  I  could  do  't.     But  let  rne  hear  ; 
Teach  me  the  way ! — I  shall  not  fear  to  meet 
This  monster,  though  with  magic  panoplied 
And  all  foul  arts.    Trust  then  the  toil  with  me, 
I  am  a  soldier  of  the  holy  cross, 
And  do  defy  the  fiend  and  all  his  works. 

AtaL     'Tis  a  brave  spirit,  but  here  can  little  do, 
Save  to  adventure. — This,  indeed,  is  much  ! — 
Magic  must  baffle  magic.     'Tis  for  thee, 
Still  to  procure  this  wand,  which  thou  can'st  win, 
When  I  have  arm'd  thee  with  some  little  pow'r  ; 
Thou  being  of  earthly  essence,  with  no  fear, 
From  contact  with  the  all-infectious  spell, 
Girdling  the  island  round.     Within  yon  rock, 
That  hangs  precipitous  above  the  deep — 
That  should  be  far  beneath  it — by  him  raised, 
With  sudden  conjuration,  at  a  word — 
Sealed  in  with  spells,  and  in  a  curious  vase, 
Itself  a  spell,  the  treasure  lies  enshrined. 
These  charms,  to  me,  were  nought,  could  I  but  reach, 
The  chambers  where  they  lie  ;  for,  with  this  ring, 
Which  now  upon  thy  hand,  I  place  from  mine, 
I  may  command  all  seals,  and  bid  them  break. 
Onesimarch  knows  this,  and  trusts  them  not ; 
But  placing  an  earthborn  taint  upon  the  air, 
He  doth  restrain  my  footstep. 

Leon.  Let  me  go — 

I  will  achieve  the  adventure,  or  will  die. 

Atal.     Not  yet — it  were  in  vain  that  you  would  pass, 
With  your  enfeebled  strength,  the  threatening  gulfs, 
Of  leaping  waters,  that,  between  this  isle, 
And  the  high  rocks  you  aim  at,  spread  themselves. 
We  must  seek  other  aid — and,  what  are  these, 
Auspiciously,  that  gather  on  the  sands, 
In  the  fine  haze  of  moonlight  1 

Nea.  Fairy  tribes, 

That,  sporting  in  the  moonbeams,  saw  below, 


SCENE  I.]  ATALANTIS.  57 

This  new  creation  of  Onesimarch, 

And  straight  came  down,  still  glad  in  what  is  new, 

To  keep  their  revels  on  it. 

Leon.     [Aside.]  Wonders  grow, 

Fruitful  as  things  of  nature. 

Atal     [To  Nea.]  This  is  well  ;— 

Meet  to  our  purpose,  at  the  needful  hour, 
When  they  might  succor  us-     We  must  persuade 
The  aid  and  office  they  will  scarce  deny 
To  one  who  holds  them  of  a  kindred  race, 
Though  of  another  element.     Away  ! 
Seek  their  chief,  Nea.     Show  him  all  our  strait, — 
Declare  our  want,  and  for  his  service  now, 
Pledge  our  good  office  at  another  time. 
We  wait  thee  here.     [Exit  Nea.]     Alas  !    sweet  youth,  thou 

look'st 
With  such  a  sadness  on  me  ! 

Leon.  Not  on  thee  ; — 

'Tis  on  my  fate  I  look  ! 

Atal  I  am  thy  fate  ! 

And  thou  wilt  hate  me  for  it !     Oh  !  forgive  !  — 
If  I  have  won  thee  now  against  thy  will, 
To  this  wild  venture,  I  do  free  thee  from  't ; — 
I  would  not  have  my  freedom,  did  it  bring 
A  moment's  grief  to  thee. 

Leon.  Thou  little  know'st, 

Sweet  Princess,  of  the  lessons  of  my  youth, 
The  training  of  my  people,  and  the  laws 
Which  make  it  still  our  duty  as  our  pride, 
To  stake  the  issues  all,  of  life  and  death, — 
All  that  we  pleasure  and  can  peril  most, — 
In  cause  of  love  and  beauty.     I  rejoice 
That  it  is  mine  to  combat  thy  mishap. 
This  is  a  venture  of  my  heart's  own  choice, 
Too  precious  to  be  yielded, — and,  forgive, — 
But  little  know'st  thou  of  Spain's  chivalry, 
When  thou  believest  that  its  valor  shrinks 
From  any  odds  with  fortune.     'Tis  with  me, 
A  pride  to  seek  for  peril ;  and  we  hold, 


58  ATALANTIS.  [ACT  III. 

Taught  in  our  schools  of  faith  and  courtesie, 
That,  to  the  soul,  no  life  is  worth  a  care, 
Lock'd  up  from  noble  deed,  lapsing  away 
Like  a  scant  brook,  beneath  a  sunny  sky, 
Scarce  murmuring  as  it  wanders  to  be  lost, 
In  the  embiace  of  the  o'erwhelming  sea. 

Atal     Oh  !  noble,  brave  philosophy ! 

Leon.  We  fight, 

That  insolence  should  meet  check  and  overthrow, 
The  weak  find  succor,  and  the  innocent, 
Be  always  sure  of  shelter  from  the  base  ; — 
And,  when  the  peril  is  for  one  so  lair, 
Then  do  our  masters  teach  us,  it  is  one 
On  which  the  heavens  look  down  approvingly 
And  the  bright  angels  cheer. 

Atal  And  yet  thou  griev'st ; — 

The  sorrow  grows  to  dews  upon  thy  lids, 
Even  while  thine  eyes  flash  fire. 

Leon.  My  grief,  alas  ! 

Mark'd  in  my  face,  is  from  the  wretched  fear, 
Now  coursing  through  my  brain,  that  she  I  seek, 
The  gentle  girl,  companion  of  my  youth, 
Bland  as  the  moonlight,  wooing  as  the  shade, 
And  sweet  as  fairy  music,  deeply  lies, 
Buried  in  these  wild  waters — never  more, 
To  bless  me  with  the  music  of  her  voice — 
The  magic  of  her  smile — the  calm  delight 
Of  her  not  troublesome,  devoted  love  ! 

Atal.     Oh  !  I  have  tears  to  share  with  thee  for  her  ! — 
I  may  not  give  her  back  to  thee,  nor  bid 
The  voice  to  that  young  lip,  where,  like  a  bird, 
That  had  its  life  in  music  with  the  flowers, 
It  moved  in  long  and  loving  melodies ; 
But  I  will  toil  in  thy  service,  glad  to  be, 
For  thy  bereaved  heart  and  fever'd  brain, 
Most  like  to  her  thou  grievest.    I  will  strive, 
That  thou  shalt  so  esteem  me.     Not  a  tone, 
Fashion'd  by  love's  own  mood,  and  most  like  hers, 
But  I  shall  teach  my  language  ; — not  a  look, 


SCENE  I.]  ATALANTIS.  59 

Worn  by  her  gentlest  features,  but  shall  mine, 
Skilfully  take  from  summer  skies  and  flowers, 
Requiting  thy  sad  heart. 

Leon.  Oh,  sweetest  maid — 

Thy  form  is  kindred  to  thy  purposes, 
And  half  restores  me. 

Atal  All  will  I  restore — 

All  thou  hast  lost, — and  more.     Believe  me  then — 
And  lose  thy  sorrows.     I  will  all  replace, 
Of  thy  fond  fancies,  and,  with  love  as  true, 
Coupled  with  better  pow'r  to  serve  its  hope, 
I'll  be  to  thee  far  more  than  she  thou  griev'st, 
Though  her  affection,  from  the  innocent  hour, 
Of  thy  confiding  childhood  and  pure  dreams, 
Boundless  as  ocean,  like  the  Mexique  waves, 
Knew  but  one  course,  and  ever  ran  to  thee. 
Believe  me,  dearest,  thou  shalt  nothing  lose, 
Of  the  known  raptures.     Thou  shalt  many  win, 
Not  in  thy  wealth  before.     Thou  shalt  not  think 
Ere  I  shall  know,  and  satisfy  thy  thought. 

Leon.     Too  generous  maid. 

Atal.  And, — hear  me,  gentle  prince  ! — 

If  to  thy  sleepless,  striving  memory, 
There  be  some  marks,  some  moods,  some  images, 
Some  sweet  tone,  some  fond  action,  some  dear  song 
Of  childhood,  or  some  innocent  prank  you've  known 
Together,  roving  amid  natural  bowers, 
Just  budding  into  life  and  consciousness, 
As  their  young  flow'rs  to  beauty  and  perfume  — 
Teach  me  the  trick  of  it  all ; — teach  me  the  tone, 
The  dear  song,  the  fond  action,  the1  gay  prank, 
Known  to  thy  happiest  childhood  ; — show  me  the  art, 
That  nothing  may  be  wanting — that  I  may  take 
A  presence  like  to  hers  upon  thy  sight, 
And  make  thee  rich  again,  possessing  her. 

Leon.    Thy  words  are  queeriliest,  like  thyself,  sweet  maid, 
And  balsam  my  deep  wound, — if  not  to  cure, 
To  soothe  and  stay  its  throbbing.     Thou  hast  said, 


60  ATALANTIS.  {.ACT  III- 

In  sweet  tones,  sweetest  words,  that  soften  much 
The  temper  of  my  sorrows. 

Atal.  I  am  glad, 

To  offer  to  thy  aid,  to  chide  thy  grief, — 

Leon.    Yet,  for  this  sweet  and  undeserved  love, 
If  I  look  coldly,  unbecomingly, — 
As  feeling  not  its  ministry,  nor  yet, 
Beholding  my  own  lack  that  makes  it  dear — 
Impute  it  not,  I  pray,  a  crime  in  me. 
I  am  not  cold  because  my  hope  is  so, 
Nor  yet  ungrateful  that  I  do  not  joy  ; — 
I  shall  learn  better  to  requite  thy  love, 
In  warmest  language,  when  the  pang  is  gone 
Of  this  sad  trial — if  it  ever  goes. 

Atal     What  do  they  call  thee  ? 

Leon.  Leon  is  my  name. 

Atal    I'll  call  thee  Leon  ; — call  me  Atalant, — 
Thy  Atalant, — for  shall  I  not  be  thine  1 
Ah  !  me  !  no  longer  may  I  be  mine  own  ! 

Leon.    Beautiful  Atalant ! — 

Atal.  But  here  they  come, 

Nea,  and  with  her  all  the  tricksy  tribe, 
That  ride  on  beams  and  travel  with  the  stars ; 
And  sing  in  place  of  speech ;  and  fly  to  walk  ; 
Now  here,  now  gone  ;  garb'd  cunningly  with  flow'rs, 
They  know  to  seem  at  pleasure  ;  and  still  bless'd, 
With  that  which  were  our  sorrow — constant  change. 

SCENE  II.— The  Same. 

Enter  NEA  with  Fairies.     They  circle  the  PRINCESS  and  LEON 
singing. 

CHORUS  OF  FAIRIES. 
I. 

Lo,  we  come,  we  come,  we  come, 

On  the  glassy  moonbeams  riding, 
While  no  cloud,  with  eye  of  gloom, 

Looks  down  on  us  chiding — 
Where  the  silver  sands  spread  out, 

Fit  for  spirits  gaily  moving; 


SCENE  I.]  ATALANTIS.  61 

Tossing  fruits  and  flow'rs  about, 
We  are  ever  roving. 

II. 

Lo,  we  fly,  we  fly,  we  fly, 

All  the  world  about  us  viewing, 
Now  in  sea  and  now  in  sky, 

Still  our  sport  pursuing. — 
Where  the  moon  is  shining  clear, 

Where  the  winds  are  met  together,. 
Do  we  daily  gather  there 

Jn  the  summer  weather. 

III. 

Lo,  we  dance,  we  dance,  we  dance, 

On  the  land,  and  o'er  the  ocean; 
Seizing  on  each  happy  chance, 

With  a  glad  commotion. 
Where  the  summer's  leaves  are  green, 

Where  the  early  birds  are  singing, 
And  the  flow'rs  are  soonest  seen, 

We  are  with  them  springing. 

IV. 

Lo,  we  come,  we  corne,  we  come, 

On  our  wings  of  light  descending  ; 
Wings  that  breathe,  like  flow'rs  in  bloom, 

Perfumes  never  ending. — 
On  the  shining  sands  we  meet, 

In  the  bright  and  gentle  weather, 
Each  with  something  new  and  sweet, 

Dancing  all  together. 

Alal.     Oh  !  ye  are  glad  to-night,  ye  merry  ones, 
With  a  fresh  spirit,  methinks.     What  pleasant  hap, 
New  privilege,  or  wild  inheritance, 
Works  on  your  wings  such  fine  delirium  1 
I  somewhat  marvel  at  your  happiness, 
Though  happy  always  ;  yet  your  wont  is  dull 
To  the  extravagant  rapture  of  your  mirth, 
And  your  free  song  to-night. 

Nanita.  Extravagant ! 

Our  mirth,  fair  Queen,  is  very  soberness  ; 
We  are  the  modestest  fairies  of  the  wild, 
The  gravest,  quietest,  best  of  little  bodies, 
That  ever  made  mischief  in  a  neighbor's  fold, 
6 


62  ATALANTIS.  [ACT  III. 

And  laugh'd  to  find  our  own.     Why,  people  call  us 

The  very  prudes  of  faerydom.     We  shake 

Our  heads  with  gravity  o'er  state  affairs, 

And  sit  in  council  with  old  Oberon, 

Who,  when  Titania  wakes  his  jealousy, 

Will  straight  prefer  our  wisdom  to  his  own  ;  — 

As,  at  such  times,  indeed,  he  wisely  may. 

Atal    Oh  !  pray  you  then  forgive  me  !     Now  I  see 
That  you  are  sober  and  quiet  as  you  claim, 
Having  but  little  mirth,  and,  at  no  season, 
Extravagant  in  its  utterance.    Your  excess 
Lay  only  in  my  sadness,     'Twas  my  grief 
That  made  your  joy  extreme.    Your  mood, 
Thus  born  of  freedom3  little  sorts  with  mine, 
That  grows  with  my  captivity,  and  glooms 
With  the  dread  aspect  of  my  prison-house. 

Loline.     Yet  is  there  much  to  gladden  us  to-night. 
Have  we  not  newly  added  to  our  realms, 
A  goodly  island,  gracious  in  extent, 
Whose  beauteous  sands,  drawn  out  in  lavish  scope, 
Persuades  the  moon's  best  smile  upon  our  revels. 

Atal.    If  you  knew  all, — the  story  of  this  isle  ! — 
Yet  is  there  something  more,  or  I  mistake  ye, 
For  which  ye  joy  to-night. 

Careta,  There  is  !     There  is  ! 

Rightly  you  spoke,  fair  princess,  when  you  deem'd 
Our  joy  unwonted.     We  are  bless'd  to-night, 
Beyond  our  usual  measure.    You  shall  hear. 
Perchance  you  know  Zerlina, — of  our  tribe, 
The  sweetest,  merriest  creature — full  of  fun, — 
But  glad  to  serve,  and,  with  the  happiest  art, 
To  make  the  service  pleasant  as  the  will, 
That  prompts  it  to  compliance.    She  is  here — 
Just  freed  from  a  captivity  like  yours ; 
Since  in  her  sport,  by  some  undreampt  mischance, 
She  smote  Titania's  favorite  nonpareil, 
And  broke  its  gossamer  wing.     The  angry  Queen, 
For  this,  our  little  sister's  innocent  deed, 
Doom'd  her,  a  prisoner  in  the  zephyr's  shell, 


SCENE  II.]  ATALANTIS. 

Till  the  first  flower  that  blossoms  in  the  spring 
Should  speak  her  into  freedom.     Till  this  time, 
Her  fate  was  pitiful  : — to  use  no  wing, 
Murmur  no  more,  and  mingle  not,  in  song — 
See  none  to  comfort — hear  no  voice  of  love — 
Dance  no  capricious  revel  on  the  s*nds, 
But,  with  an  unresisting  sense,  to  float 
On  the  tumultuous  billows,  night  and  morn, 
Until  the  birth  of  that  same  flow'r  of  spring  ! 
Found  on  the  pleasantest  shore  beneath  the  sun, 
Where  first  he  soars  in  brightness  from  the  seas, 
We  hail'd  its  presence  and  have  set  her  free  ; 
And,  from  her  prison,  with  delighted  wing, 
She  soars  with  us  to-night. 

Lol.  Nor  is  this  all — 

Another  captive  hath  to-night  been  freed, 
We  had  deem'd  lost  forever  to  our  sports. 
This  wanton  fairy,  sporting  in  the  breeze, 
Last  moon,  alone,  was  taken  prisoner 
By  that  same  tyrant-king,  Onesimarch, 
That  locks  you  in  ;  and,  'twere  a  fit  revenge, 
That  we  should  join  with  you,  for  these  same  wrongs, 
To  punish  him  in  turn.     Within  yon  rock, 
He  s?al'd  her  up  in  crystal.    By  some  chance, 
Not  yet  discovered,  all  her  bonds  were  broke, 
And  she  is  here  with  us.     Tinina! — here! 
Behold  the  maiden,  Princess.     She  knows  all, 
The  secrets  of  this  tyrant's  ocean-towers, 
And,  for  your  wand's  recovery,  will  do 
Aught  that  will  seem  most  needful. 

Atal     [  To  Tinina.]  Fit  a  barque, 

And  make  thy  wing  its  sail,  to  waft  this  Prince 
To  the  same  rock  that  was  thy  prison  late. 
Himself  will  do  the  rest.     'Tis  there  I  learn, 
My  sceptre  is  sealed  up. 

Tinina.  The  barque  is  here, 

Even  with  a  whisper,  and  my  wing  is  ready  ; 
Will  't  please  you  go,  my  Prince  ? 

Atal     [timidly.}  Wilt  thou  go,  Leon  1 


, 

64  ATALANTIS.  [ACT  III. 

Leon.     'Twill  please  and  make  me  proud. 

Lol  Tinina,  hence  \ 

I  give  thee  winds,  and  waters,  and  a  star, — 
I  spell  thee  with  a  talisman  of  safety, — 
And  crown  thee  with  a  will  and  wing  of  strength; 
Go  hence  in  courage  and  be  bless'd  in  service  ; 
And  when  thy  task  is  done,  regain  our  course, 
Which  now  we  take  toward  the  Hundred  Isles, 
That  smile  in  the  Southern  Cross.     We  wait  thee  there. 
Princess,  we  gladden  that  our  offices 
Seem  worth  thy  tasking,  and  shall  find  delight, 
If  that  they  prosper  'neath  thy  hope  and  ours. 
Wings,  be  ye  up  and  wheeling — up,  I  say  ! 

Flight  of  Fairies  and  Chorus. 

We  are  they  who  fly  by  night, 
When  the  maiden  moon  is  bright, 
And  the  silver  beach  is  spread, 
Out  on  ocean  like  a  thread, 
Meetly  for  a  fairy's  tread  : 
When  the  air  of  heaven  is  balm, 
When  the  ocean  waves  are  calm, 
And  the  flowers  of  earth  grow  bright,— 
We  are  they  who  fly  by  night ! 

[Exeunt  Fairies. 

Atal.     Now,  Leon,  if  the  task  before  thee,  seem 
Unsuited  to  thy  human  strength, — 

Leon.  No  more  !  — 

Hold  me,  I  pray  thee,  Princess,  as  a  man, 
That  better  loves  the  struggle  that  proves  manhood, 
Than  the  base  sleep  that  stagnates  all  his  soul. 
I  seek  the  adventure. 

Atal.  Then,  this  sylph  will  guide  ; — 

Will  bear  thee  safely  o'er  these  tumbling  gulphs, 
To  yon  tall  rock,  now  beetling  black  and  vast 
Above  the  whiten'd  billows.     Boldly  speed, 
Nothing  misdoubting,  howsoever  strange 
The  thing  that  rises  threatening  in  thy  path. 
The  mystic  ring  that  wraps  thy  finger  round, 
Hath,  in  itself,  a  wondrous  faculty, 


SCENE  II.]  ATALANTIS.  65 

To  shield  the  wearer  from  the  unlicensed  power 
Of  spirits  of  evil. 

Leon.  Atalant,  I  go, 

Having  a  better  talisman  (;f  safety, 
In  service  which  is  noble,  and  in  prayer 
To  him  who  checks  and  may  subdue  all  spirits, 
Than  in  this  hoop  of  magic.     See,  this  cross, 
Which  crowns  the  mortal  weapon  that  I  wear, 
As  life  is  over  death  ! — this  is  my  shield, 
As,  in  the  blade,  I  find  my  ample  sword  ;. 
With  these  I  go  unfearing. 

Atal.  Would  thou  went'st 

With  brow  serene — with  happier  thought  than  now. 

Leon.     Heed  not  the  mood  of  this  most  heavy  heart, 
That  clouds  the  brow  thou  look'st  on.     Some  few  days 
Will  hush  the  impatient  grief  that  murmuring  cries, 
Seeking  a  loved  one  lost.     When  I  return, 
And  thou  hast  led  me  where  my  sister  lies, 
Though  she  beholds  not  as  I  weep  beside  her, 
Still  will  I  strive  to  thank  thee  with  a  blessing, 
Whose  eyes  shall  look  but  love  ! 

Atal.    "  Till  then  I  live  not ! 

[TININA  sings.] 
The  wind  is  on  the  wave,  and  the  billow  rolls  away, 

And  the  star  that  is  the  guide  to  the  voyager  is  bright, 
But  the  fickle  wind  may  change,  should  the  voyager  delay, 

And  the  star  beneath  the  demon  cloud  may  perish  from  the  sight* 
The  will,  and  the  wing,  are  both  ready  while  I  sing — 

And  the  service  that  makes  music  as  for  love  it  labors  still, 
Hath  no  murmur  for  the  ear,  though  it  whispers  still  of  care, 

And  implores  that  the  season  be  not  forfeit  to  the  will. 
Then  away,  then  away,  ere  we  meet  the  coming  day, 

For  the  dewy  haze  is  rising  like  a  curtain  o'er  the  sea ; — 
I  have  winds  and  waves  and  star,  but  they  serve  us  not  in  war, 

And  the  present  bears  the  flower  that's  most  precious  unto  me 

Leon.    The  delicate  song  is  sung  in  my  behalf, 
A  counsel  spoke  in  sweetness,  as  should  be 
All  counsel  for  the  loved  one  ; — fairy,  thanks  ! — 
I'm  with  thee  ! — sweetest  princess,  fare  thee  well ! 

Atal    I  dare  not  bid  thee  go,  but  if  thou  wilt, 
My  heart  has  but  one  bidding — soon  return. 

[Exeunt  LEON  and  TININA. 
6* 


ATALANTIS.  [ACT  III. 


Nea.    Sweet  mistress  ! — 

A/a?.  Come  with  me  to  ocean's  edge, — 

That  we  may  soonest  hail  his  coming  back, 
Made  happy  in  his  safety. 

JVea.  This  is  love  !  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — The  rock  and  tower  of  ONESIMARCHUS.    OGEE 
chained  at  the  base. 

Ogre.    Shall  I  not  have  revenge — shall  he  not  feel, 
This  wanton  wrong  that  he  hath  put  on  me, 
In  his  unmeasured  wrath  1     Must  I  submit 
To  wear  the  chains  about  my  limbs,  as  now  ; 
Still  fearing,  that,  for  every  erring  deed, 
I  may  not  'scape  the  villain  penalty, 
But  bend  my  shrinking  back  to  meet  the  scourge, 
When  't  suits  a  fellow  slave  to  place  it  there  ! 
I'll  be  revenged.— Already  have  I  done 
Something  towards  it ;  for,  throughout  the  hour, 
When  that  his  storms  were  raging  o'er  my  limbs, 
Chafed  into  madness,  the  dismember'd  rocks 
I  hurl'd  into  his  secret  halls  above, 
And  the  repeated  crash  gave  token  sure 
Of  a  wild  mischief — and  I  rest  not  here ! 
He  cannot  punish  me  more  than  he  has  done, 
And,  let  the  tyrant  will  it  so  or  not, 
I  leave  his  service  when  my  limbs  are  free. 
Ha  !     What  are  these  ?     How  now  !     What  seek  you  here  1 

Enter  LEON  and  TININA. 

What  is  it  that  you  lack  1     Speak,  ere  I  strike, 
And  hurl  you  into  pieces  with  this  rock. 

Leon.    Thou  monstrous  slave,  what  is  it  that  thou  say'st  1 
Dost  threaten  too  ?     Stand  by,  and  let  me  pass, 
Or  thus,  I  thrust  my  weapon  to  thy  heart. 

Tinina.    Forbear  !     Thou  wert  an  infant  in  his  grasp, 
And  he  would  crush  thee  at  a  single  stroke. 
Show  him  thy  spell  of  power— but  lift  thy  ring  ! 
See,  now,  he  trembles  :  keep  it  thus  in  sight, 


SCENE  III.]  ATALANTIS.  67 

And  we  shall  pass.     No  strength  is  in  his  arm, — 

He  cannot  hurt  us  now.  [They  ascend  and  enter  the  rock. 

Ogre.  Terrible  power  ! 

How  has  it  fetter'd  me,  and  taken  away, 
Each  nerve  once  strung  for  action.     Lo  !  they  come, 
And  bearing  off  my  master's  instruments. — 
Well,  let  them  go  !     I  glad  me  he  hath  wrong  ! 
I  would  that  he  were  fetter'd  in  my  place, 
And  I  were  free  and  had  no  master  then  ; 
How  would  I  revel  in  all  goodly  things, 
What  lusts  would  I  delight  in, — food  and  drink, 
Until  my  senses  swim,  and  sleep  i'  the  sun, 
Doing  no  service  more  !     Ah  !  here  they  come. 

Enter  LEON  and  TININA. 

Leon.    Slave,  would'st  thou  have  thy  freedom,  and  escape 
The  tyranny  that  tramples  in  this  wise, 
Loading  thy  limbs  with  chains,  while  the  salt  sea, 
Enflames  the  galling  tortures  of  the  scourge. 

Ogre.     That  would  I,  mighty  Prince. 

Leon.  Thou  hast  it  then. 

Throw  by  the  chain  thou  wear'st  and  follow  me. 

Ogre.    I'll  fling  it  in  the  sea.     Shall  I  do  more  1 
Bid  me  upheave  this  rocky  battlement, 
Wherein  he  keeps  his  magic,  I'll  not  pause ; — 
Do  thou  but  say  the  word. 

Leon.  Nay,  heed  it  not ! 

If  she  I  serve  do  thus  decree,  thou  may'st, — 
Not  else. 

Ogre.        How  now  !  you  are  no  monarch  then  1 
Whom  serve  you  ] 

Leon.  The  fair  princess,  Atalantis. 

Ogre.     I  do  remember  that  she  spoke  for  me, 
And  would  have  saved  me  from  this  scourge  and  rock. 
A  goodly  princess — I  will  worship  her. 

TININA  sings. 

The  bark  is  on  the  sea,  and  the  breeze  is  in  the  sail, 
And  the  star  to  guide  us  onward  is  now  gleaming  o'er  the  steep ; 

We  have  won  the^pri26  we  sought,  and  the  whisper  of  the  gale 
Would  counsel  us,  the  treasure,  we  have  haply  won,  to  keep. 


68  ATALANTIS.  [ACT  III. 

Then  away,  then  away,  ere  the  tyrant  seeks  his  prey, — 

There's  a  murmur  of  the  ocean  that's  unfriendly  to  our  flight ; 

And  the  cricket  at  mine  ear  has  a  chirrup  full  of  fear, 
That  but  lately  sung  in  music  ol  a  confident  delight. 

Leon.     Even  as  thou  wilt,  sweet  maiden ;  let  us  hence 
To  her  who  waits  in  fear  and  innocence.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — The  Ocean  between  the  Rocks  and  the  Islet. 

ATALANTIS,  LEON  and  NEA.     ONEsiMARCHUS  approaching  with 
his  Legions. 

Onesi.     Ha  !  what  is  here — what  fearful  change  is  this  1 — 
The  rock  of  spells  o'erthrown,  and  Atalant, 
Again  with  wand  restored,  and,  at  her  side, 
The  lowly  instrument  of  her  release. 
J  did  not  guard  against  a  thing  of  earth, 
And  he  hath  wrought  this  ruin  of  my  hopes. 
She  smiles  upon  him  too — perchance  she  loves — 
Hell ! — that  I  cannot  blast  her  with  a  look, 
And  him,  the  minion,  that  hath  won  her  love ! — 
He  shall  not  live,  to  triumph  in  that  love, 
Enjoying  raptures  still  denied  to  me. 
Rise  waters — lift  your  heads — mount  up  and  soar, 
Engulphing  all  that  may  not  ride  upon  ye  ; 
And  thou,  dismembered  shore,  again  descend,          \ 
Down  to  the  oozy  depths  from  whence  thou  cam'st — 
I  need  thee  nothing  farther — sink,  I  say. 

[He  waves  his  wand  and  the  island  descends. 

Atal.    Now,  Leon,  place  thy  hand  within  mine  own ; 
Fear  not  the  billows — hearken  not  their  roar, — 
They  cannot  harm  thee,  thus  accompanied. 

Leon.    And  ye,  fair  skies,  farewell.     Thou  fatal  isle, 
Which  robb'd  me  of  my  best  beloved,  farewell — 
I  sorrow  not  to  see  thee  downward  go, 
Troubling  no  mariner  hence.     One  long  last  look, 
Ye  bright  clouds,  that  remind  me  of  my  home — 
My  country,  all,  farewell.     Oh,  never  more 
Shall  my  eyes  gladden  with  your  glimpse  again. 
Now  Isabel,  I  come  ! 

Atal.  Thou  hast  no  fear, 

Dear  Leon,  from  this  danger  ? 


SCENE  IV.]  ATALANTIS.  69 

Leon.  Little  now, 

Since,  in  the  wonders  that  are  shown  to  me, 
I  yield  me  to  the  fullest  faith  in  all 
That  thou  hast  promised  me. 

Atal.  Thou  soon  shalt  see, 

How,  as  to  me,  these  waters  shall  become 
Familiar  to  thy  nature.     Thou  wilt  glide 
Unharm'd,  between  their  billows,  which  shall  lift 
Thy  form,  with  friendly  succor,  as  thou  will'st, 
Making  their  arms  thy  servants. 

Leon.  I  believe, — 

And  round  thy  waist,  sweet  Atalant,  I- twine,.. 
Fearless,  my  confident  arm  and  murmur  not. 
I  would  not  look  upon  the  skies  again, 
That,  witness'd  my  late  ruin;  and  the  seas, 
That  wrought  it  all,  beget  no  terrors  now. — 
We  do  not  sink. 

Atal.  Not  yet !— Behold  afar, 

Where,  gathering,  grow  vast  legions — angry  forms, 
Gigantic,  that  in  masses,  or  alone, 
Dart  onward,  with  a  glittering  panoply 
That  flames  the  crests  of  ocean  far  and  wide, 
While  roll  the  constant  thunders  of  the  gong, 
That  calls  them  still  to  rise. 

Leon.  I  see  !  I  see  ! 

Atal.     These  are  the  armies  of  my  own  domain,. 
Led  by  my  gallant  brothers.     They  go  forth, 
To  fight  and  conquer  this  Onesimarch, 
Who,  strong  in  trick  and  artifice  alone, 
Will  never  meet  them  in  the  open  field. 
Already,  see,  he  shrinks  ;  —  his  hosts  retire, 
And  his  fierce  rule  departs. 

Leon.  The  land  is  gone  ! 

Atal.    Yes,  down  we  sink,  and  thou  art.  all  mine  own  : 
I  bear  thee  on  the  waters,  for  a  while, 
To  prove  the  power  I  have  to  succor  thee. 
Now  for  the  calm  retreat,  by  ocenn  girt, 
And  stormy  waves  protected — now  with  me  ! 
There  in  the  sunny  hours  that  lapse  away, 
Like  angel  messengers,  and  leave  no  pain, 


70  ATALANTIS.  [ACT  III. 

Thy  heart  shall  grow  to  gladness.     Life  shall  be 
A  sweet,  rich,  gracious  time, — a  pure  estate, 
Beyond  the  strifes  that  trouble  it  with  man  : — 
Free  from  controlling  crowds — free  from  the  jar, 
The  heat,  the  noise,  the  dust  of  human  care. 
Nature  shall  blight  thee  never,  nor  disease 
Bind  thee  in  loathsome  sheets  ;  nor  tempests  rise 
To  blast  thy  fields,  dispute  thy  fondest  hope, 
And,  from  thy  wearied  and  exhausted  heart, 
Drink  the  sweet  lileblood  of  thy  innocent  joy. 
The  breeze  shall  rather  soothe  thee  with  a  breath, 
Robb'd  from  celestial  gardens.     The  blue  waves, 
Shall  roll  their  tribute  honors  to  thy  feet ; 
Upon  their  bosom,  many  an  offering  placed, 
Of  fruits,  fresh  wafted  from  far  Indian  isles, 
Wooing  thee  with  their  fragrance.     In  the  air,. 
Nature  shall  cast  her  odors,  and  thine  eye 
Shall  never  ope  but  to  behold  some  new 
And  most  luxuriant  freshness  in  her  form  ; 
And,  I  shall  love  thee  too,  and  toil  untired 
To  give  thee  back  the  maiden  whom  thou  seek'st. 

Leon.     Ah  !  if  thou  could'st !— but  no  !      The  hope  is  vain, 
And  the  wish  idle.     Yet  the  love  thou  givest, 
Might  well  compensate,  to  this  baffled  heart, 
The  loss  which  still  it  weeps, 

Atal.  Oh  !  do  not  weep. 

I'll  love  thee  in  all  fortunes.     At  the  morn, 
I'll  lead  thee  through  our  waters,  'mid  our  caves, 
Where,  in  unconscious  brightness,  cluster  gems 
Had  set  your  world  on  fire.     There  shall  you  mark 
Glad  sea-maids  that,  attending  on  our  steps, 
Fill  their  deep  shells  with  song  ;  and.  when  the  sun 
Shines  burningly  at  noon,  in  coral  groves, 
Thy  head  well  pillow'd  on  my  happy  breast, 
I'll  sit  and  watch  thy  slumbers,  blest  to  soothe 
Thy  ever  beating  pulse,  and  kiss  thy  lips, 
When,  murmuring  in  thy  sleep,  thou  speak'st  the  name, 
Of  her  thou  still  hast  loved. 

Leon.  No  more  of  her. 

I  go  with  thee,  sweet  Atalant. — We  sink  ! 


SCENE  IV.]  ATALANTIS.  71 

NEA,  singing  as  the  islet  descends. 

I, 

Come  beautiful,  amid  the  azure  waves, 

Into  our  coral  caves  ; 
Fly  from  the  gloomy,  cheerless  world  above, 

To  one  of  peace  and  love ; 
Forget  the  fears,  the  weighty  fears,  that  press 

On  thy  heart's  happiness; 
And,  with  bold  hand,  asunder  snap  the  chain 

That  binds  thee  down  to  pain; — 
Come,  seek  the  coral  groves  beneath  the  sea, 

And  dwell  with  love  and  me. 

II. 
Have  they  not  put  upon  thy  hopes  a  blight, 

Making  all  chill  and  night ; 
Rebuked,  and  frown'd  upon  thy  soaring  aim, 

To  honor  and  high  fame; 
Taught  thee,  when  all  was  nature  in  thy  heart, 

To  be  a  thing  of  art; 
And,  when  thou  least  hast  dream'd  of  such  deceit, 

Trampled  thee  under  feet ; 
And  wilt  thou  not,  beneath  the  rolling  sea. 

Find  better  things  with  me  1 

III. 

Thou  wast  not,  loved  one,  O  !  believe  it,  born, 

To  be  a  thing  of  scorn ; — 
Thy  spirit  is  of  strong  and  lofty  make, 

Which  they  might  never  shake: 
Wilt  thou  permit  that  it  should  waste  away, 

In  strifes  and  cares  of  clay, 
Deprived  of  that  high  empire  which  was  given, 

To  thy  great  mind  from  heaven, 
And  made  a  victim,  where,  were  empire  free, 

Thou  wert  a  Deity. 

IV. 

They  fear,  and  fearing,  hate  thee :  they  would  strike 
Thy  hope  and  heart  alike  ; 

Deride  the  lofty  object  in  thy  aim, 
And  all  thy  spirit  tame  ; 

Assail  thy  just  pretension  with  a  sneer, 
And  mock,  even  though  they  fear; 

Take  from  thy  generous  earnings,  and  deny 
Thy  wing  its  victory ; 

Dispute  the  daring  flight  they  cannot  see- 
Come,  beautiful,  with  me. 


72  ATALANTIS.  [ACT  III. 

V. 

What  that  thy  people  yields,  do  I  deny  1— 

Look  round  thee  and  reply  ! 
Thy  life  is  but  a  battle,  and  in  death 

Of  what  avail  thy  wreath ; 
Reluctant  yielded,  when  in  vain  thy  boast, 

A  mockery  to  thy  ghost, 
A  frail  sere  trophy  which  thou  hadst  not  seen 

While  yet  its  leaves  were  green, 
But  only  when  too  late,  and  when  no  more 

Thou  dost  the  boon  implore. 

VI. 

I  lure  thee  not  with  subtle  strains  of  art, 

Wrought  for  thy  slumbering  heart; 
The  simplest  note,  the  humblest  influence, 

I  offer  to  thy  sense  ; 
Assailing  not  thy  reason  with  a  song 

Of  witchery  and  wrong  ; 
But,  with  a  tone  made  gentle  to  thine  ear, 

I  call  on  thee  to  hear ; — 
And,  with  a  choice  of  brighter  destiny, 

To  dwell  beneath  the  sea. 

VII. 

Thou  wilt  not  lose  the  sky,  for,  haply  press'd, 

Once,  to  the  sea-queen's  breast, 
Thy  form  receives  new  gifts  of  power  and  sense 

From  newer  elements  ;— 
Not  perishing,  but  in  its  change,  become, 

With  renovated  bloom, 
A  principle  of  freedom,  which  may  roam, 

Making  the  world  its  home; 
But  chiefest,  in  the  sparry  caves  of  sea, 

Dwelling  with  love  and  me. 

VIII. 

Far  down  in  the  deep  waters  is  an  isle, 

Where  sunbeams  ever  smile ; 
Strong  are  the  rocks,  the  gentle  shores  protect, 

With  flow'rs  and  fruitage  deck'd — 
Glad  are  the  azure  waves  that  round  it  glide. 

With  music  and  in  pride, — 
And  sweet  affections,  born  of  love  and  truth, 

Have  there  perpetual  youth  ; 
While  hearts,  more  fond  than  those  from  which  we  flee, 

Give  gladness  to  the  sea. 

END  OF  ATALANTIS. 


THE  EYE  AND  THE  WING; 


POEMS 


CHIEFLY  IMAGINATIVE. 


THE  EYE  AND  THE  WING. 


THE    BARD'S    IDEAL 


I. 

NOT  like  the  rest,  an  image  still  retreating, 

That  woo's  in  mockery  and  but  woo's  to  fly — 
Still,  as  at  first,  thy  lovely  presence  meeting, 

Soothes  the  dark  shades  that  gather  on  mine  eye  ; 
Beneath  thy  morning  glance  the  gloom  is  fleeting, 

The  tempest's  self  subsides  into  a  sigh, 
And  thousand  darting  forms,  the  exile  greeting, 

Restore  his  youth — persuade  him  of  its  sky. 

II. 

Rose  of  the  enamor'd  heart,  as  soft  as  glowing, 

Star  of  the  vex'd  and  tempest-troubled  soul, 
Shining  with  hallowed  beam  upon  its  flowing, 

Silvering  the  waters  that  must  ever  roll ; 
Bird  of  the  mazy  note,  the  song  bestowing, 

Whose  tones  come  o'er  us  with  a  strange  control ; 
Leaf,  bud  and  flower,  for  each  affection  growing, 

Gladd'ning  each  sense  and  rousing  up  the  whole. 


76  THE  EYE  AND  THE  WING. 

•       in.  - 

Bright  shadow  of  the  being  we  desire, 

When,  from  our  feet,  the  mortal  clog  is  gone  ; 
That  keep'st  the  virgin  voices  of  the  lyre, 

And  know'st  to  wake  them  into  living  tone  ; 
Unsleeping  watcher  of  that  sacred  fire, 

Perpetual-springing,  near  the  eternal  throne, — 
Whose  every  hour  of  tendance,  brings  us  nigher 

The  only  realm  of  rapture  ever  known. 

IV. 

Sweet  voice,  that  in  the  forest  calls  upon  me, 

When  woods  are  dim  and  falling  shadows  deep  ; 
Dear  smile,  that  midst  the  gloom  of  night  has  won  me, 

To  love  her  coming,  and  with  love  to  weep  ; 
And,  when  the  strifes  of  fortune  have  undone  me, 

Whose  murmuring  blessings  to  my  bosom  creep — 
Sufficient  solace,  though  the  world  may  shun  me, 

My  sad  heart  in  that  happiest  faith  to  keep. 

V. 

With  pow'r  to  hallow  where  thy  foot  is  planted, 

And  wake  the  blossom  into  being  there  ; 
With  smile  to  make  the  saddest  home  enchanted, 

And  break  the  iron  sceptre  of  despair ; 
I  pant  to  find  thee,  as  the  hart  hath  panted, 

For  the  cool  brooks  when  flying  fast  in  fear  ; 
With  staggering  limbs,  ahd  spirit  dim  and  daunted, 

The  hunter  on  his  flanks,  the  danger  near. 

VI. 

Come  to  me  with  thy  voice  of  loftiest  power, 

And  quell  the  demon  raging  in  my  breast ; 
Lead  me,  thou  gentle  !  to  thy  shady  bower, 

And  lull  me  in  thy  snowy  arms  to  rest ; 
Above  my  head,  oh  !  hang  thy  sweetest  flow'r, 

And  wake  the  song-bird  slumbering  in  his  nest, 
Nor  let  me  measure  the  departing  hour 

When  thou  hast  made  me  thus,  so  truly,  blest ! 


THE  BARD'S  IDEAL.  77 

VII. 

Back,  lead  me,  to  the  long-  estranged  dwelling-, 

The  sweet  white  cottage  by  the  lake's  green  side  ; 
Once  more  that  prattling  strain,  from  streamlet  welling 

Above  the  grassy  marge  that  strove  to  hide  ; 
Bring  me  my  wings — the  birds,  for  ever  swelling 

A  fond  spring  carol  winter's  steps  to  chide  ; 
And  then,  that  sleepless  hope,  the  rest  excelling, 

That,  through  my  homage,  still  sustained  my  pride; 

VIII. 

They  come  ! — I  hear  thy  silver  sounds  decreeing  ! 

Ah,  truest! — thou  art  pow'r  in  love  array'd  ; 
Love  is  the  essence  of  thy  birth  and  being, 

At  the  heart's  portals  are  thy  dwellings  made  ; 
Thou  cheer'st  the  exile  from  the  cold  world  fleeing, 

Thou  guid'st  him  fondly  to  the  sacred  shade ; 
All-lifting,  all-endowing  and  all-freeing — 

Ah,  generous  !  they  are  here  with  whom  I  played. 

IX. 

In  thee  they  rise,  in  thee  they  gather  round  me, 

The  crowding  hopes  and  images  of  youth  ; 
Each  spell  that  won,  each  phantasy  that  bound  me, 

Assuasive  yet,  as  if  they  still  were  sooth  ; 
With  all  to  win,  no  tone  or  look  to  wound  me, 

With  cheeks  all  tenderness  and  eyes  all  ruth, 
No  form  forgot,  no  friend  that  boyhood  found  me,. 

No  smile  that  cheer'd  me,  and  that  seem'd  like  truth. 

X. 

Bright  as  the  morning  when  the  sun  is  blushing, 

Soft  as  the  rainbow  when  the  storm  is  o'er ; 
Sweet  as  the  zephyr  o'er  the  still  lake  rushing, 

Dear  as  the  holy  shrine  the  good  adore  ; 
Winning  as  waters  through  the  forest  gushing, 

Soothing  as  hopes  that  come  when  we  deplore  ; 
Blessing  as  airs  that  say  the  storm  is  hushing, 

And  sweet  as  dreams  that  bid  us  weep  no  more. 
7* 


• 
78  THE  EYE  AND  THE  WING. 

XL 

Thou  hast  the  charm — in  thee  is  all  the  sweetness, 

Of  bud  and  bird,  and  flow'r,  and  ray,  and  hue  ; 
Thine  eye  hath  all  the  light,  thy  step  the  fleetness, 

Thou  art  the  soul,  the  sun,  the  pure,  the  true  ; 
I  look  for  thee  at  morn,  and  in  thy  splendor, 

I  ask  not  for  the  presence  of  the  sun  ; 
And  in  thy  blue  eyes  and  their  aspect  tender, 

Still  deem  the  heaven  above,  and  they,  are  one. 


THE   BARD. 


WHERE  dwells  the  spirit  of  the  Bard— what  sky 

Persuades  his  daring  wing, — 

Folded  in  soft  carnation,  or  in  snow 

Still  sleeping,  far  o'er  summits  of  the  cloud, 

And,  with  a  seeming,  sweet  unconsciousness, 

Wooing  his  plume,  through  baffling  storms  to  fly, 

Assured  of  all  that  ever  yet  might  bless 

The  spirit,  by  love  and  loftiest  hope  made  proud, 

Would  he  but  struggle  for  the  dear  caress  ! — 

Or  would  his  giant  spring, 

Impell'd  by  holiest  ire, 

Assail  the  sullen  summits  of  the  storm, 

Bent  with  broad  breast  and  still  impatient  form, 

Where  clouds  unfold  themselves  in  leaping  fire  ! 

What  vision  wins  his  soul, — 

What  passion  wings  his  flight, — 

What  dream  of  conquest  woos  his  eager  eye  ? — 

How  glows  he  with  the  strife, — 


THE  BARD.  79  / 


How  spurns  he  at  control, — 

With  what  unmeasured  rage  would  he  defy, 

The  foes  that  rise  around  and  threaten  life  ! — 

His  upward  flight  is  fair, 

He  goes  through  parting  air, 

He  breaks  the  barrier  cloud,  he  sees  the  eye  that's  there, 

The  centre  of  the  realm  of  storm  that  mock'd  him  but  to  dare ! : 

And  now  he  grasps  the  prize, 

That  on  the  summit  lies, 

And  binds  the  burning  jewel  to  his  brow  ; — 

Transfigured  by  its  bright, 

He  wears  a  mightier  face, 

Nor  grovels  more  in  likeness  of  the  earth  ; — 

His  wing  a  bolder  flight, 

His  step  a  wilder  grace, 

He  glows,  the  creature  of  a  holier  birth  ; — 

Suns  sing,  and  stars  glow  glad  around  his  light ; 

And  thus  he  speeds  afar, 

'Mid  gathering  sun  and  star, 

The  sov'ran,  he,  of  worlds,  where  these  but  subjects  are ; : 

And  men  that  mark'd  his  wing  with  mocking  sight, 

Do  watch  and  wonder  now  ; — 

Will  watch  and  worship  with  delight,  anon, 

When  far  from  hiss  and  hate,  his  upward  form  hath  gone  ! 

II. 

Oh  !  ere  that  van  was  won, 

Whose  flight  hath  braved  the  sun, 

Whose  daring  strength  and  aim 

Have  scaled  the  heights  of  cloud  and  bared  their  breasts  of 

flame ; 

What  lowly  toil  was  done, — 
How  slow  the  moments  sped, — 

How  bitter  were  the  pangs  that  vex'd  the  heart  and  head  ! 
The  burden  which  he  bore, 
The  thorns,  his  feet  that  tore, 
The  cruel  wounds  he  suffer'd  with  no  moan, — 
Alone, — and  still  alone  ! — 
Denial,  which  could  smile, 
Beholding,  all  the  while, 


80  THE  EYE  AND  THE  WING. 

How  salter  than  the  sea  were  the  salt  tears  he  shed  ; 

And  over  all,  the  curse, 

Than  all  these  more  worse, 

Prostrate,  before  the  common  way,  to  bear 

The  feet  of  hissing  things, 

Whose  toil  it  is  to  tear, 

And  tramp  the  glorious  creature  born  to  wings  ! 

Ah  !  should  he  once  despair  !  — 

III. 

But,  strength  from  lowliness, — 

From  patience,  power  and  pride, — 

And  freedom  ever  from  the  deep  duresse  1 

These,  to  the  one  denied, 

Still  soothe  the  drear  distress, 

Brought  by  the  very  grief  when  well  defied  ! 

First,  grovelling  where  he  lay, 

To  want  and  wo  the  prey, 

Unconscious  that  the  darkness  led  to  day  ; 

With  eyes  from  birth  still  seal'd, 

As  are  the  eaglets  ere  they  dream  to  fly, 

The  realm  of  open  empire  unrevesled  ; — 

First  came  the  boon,  —  the  precious  boon — to  see 

That  the  broad  firmament  was  spread  above 

A  world  that  yet  was  free  ; — 

And,  in  the  embracing  and  delicious  air, 

There  hung  great  wings,  whose  plumage,  bright  with  love, 

Seem'd  ever  natural  to  the  aim  and  eye  ! — 

Were  these  but  won  ! — with  these  ! — 

Oh  !  thence,  with  fond  devotion,  rose  the  pray'r 

For  the  one  gift  that  promised  such  delight, 

The  single  boon  of  flight !  — 

A  prayer  to  make  the  hopeful  heart  grow  wild  ! — 

And,  with  the  hope,  still  struggling,  like  the  child, 

To  whom  the  eager  mind  the  muscle  brings, — 

Not  yet  secure  of  foothold,  but  erect, 

He  grew, — in  watches  of  the  night,  he  grew, 

When  others  slept, — in  such  secure  degrees, 

He  vex'd  no  jealous  view  ; 


THE  BARD.  81 

And  thus  the  upward  progress  went  uncheck'd ; 
And  thus  he  put  on  wings  ; — 

fntil,  with  strength  to  soar, 

le  felt  the  earth  no  more, 

And  shook  its  dust  away,  and  all  its  reptile  things  ; 
The  eye  and  wing  together  won  the  height ; 
And  they  who  mock'd  and  smote, 
Might  vainly  hiss  and  roar, 
With  nothing  left  them  but  to  dream  and  dote  : 
Unless,  and  this  were  something  of  a  bliss, 
Compensative,  from  mercy,  for  their  hiss, 
To  bow,  while  yet  they  gaze,  and  in  their  shame,  adore ! 

IV. 

What  if  Ihe  toil  and  struggle  were  with  earth? 

The  purpose  of  earth's  self  is  for  a  sphere 

In  which  she  has  no  share  ; — 

And  thus  it  is  that  she  may  loathe  the  birth, 

Wherein  a  spirit  so  rare 

Makes  her  the  rack  on  which  to  stretch  his  wings. 

Vainly  he  loathes  and  strives, 

The  victim  feels  but  thrives  ; 

It  is  appointed  he  shall  still  go  forth, 

If  that  he  neither  yields  him  to  her  hate, 

Nor  subjugates  his  pinion  to  her  snare  ; 

And,  it  is  written,  his  first  passion  flings 

Her  clay  off  with  her  fetiers,  and  her  stains 

With  all  his  immature  pains  ; — 

As,  in  the  expression  of  a  joy  elate, 

With  the  exulting  sense  of  a  new  dawn, 

One  flings  away  the  dreary  doubt  that  pall'd, 

With  sense  of  weariness,  at  close  of  day, 

And,  with  the  merriest  strains, 

Bids  them  bring  forth  his  steed  upon  the  sun-bright  lawn  ! 

He  only  hath  to  wait, — 

To  wait  with  confident  heart ;  without  complaint, 

Endure,  whate'er  his  lowliness  of  state, — 

And,  with  a  spirit  resolved  and  never  faint, 

To  struggle  with  the  griefs  that  still  oppress  ; — 


82  THE  EYE  AND  THE  WING. 

And  the  appointed  moment  will  unscale 

His  eye,  and  he  will  break  from  all  duresse, 

To  see  the  glowing  vans,  all  purple-lmed, 

Stooping,  with  gradual  waver,  to  his  will ; — 

At  dawn,  when  happiest  dreams  his  pulses  thrill, 

To  find  them  freshly  to  his  shoulders  glued  ; 

'Till,  with  a  sense  of  upward  life,  he  springs, 

Scarce  conscious  of  the  motion  of  his  wings, 

To  flight,  and  in  his  flight  as  all  unconscious  sings ; — 

Voice,  wing  and  eye,  being  children  of  a  birth  ; — 

Flight  of  a  threefold  power,  that  still  implies, 

When  fairly  parted  from  the  enthralling  earth, 

The  song,  and  sight  and  soul,  that  shape  it  for  the  skies  ! 

V. 

If,  for  a  moment,  he  forbears  his  flight, 

Won  by  seducing  syren  of  the  shore, 

Self-chidden,  he  is  soon  upon  his  way, 

Still,  upward,  into  light ! 

For,  not  in  the  embrace  of  mortal  clay, 

Sleeps  long  the  soul  of  the  imperial  lyre  ! 

The  eye,  that  is  the  shoulder  of  his  wing, 

Still,  in  advance,  beholds  the  approaching  dayt 

Long  ere  the  night,  his  head  on  his  own  heart, 

Hath  girt  him  to  depart ! 

And  thus  doth  he  aspire, 

And  thus  doth  he  explore, 

And  thus  he  finds  his  freedom,  spite  of  art, 

That  would  beguile  him  from  his  great  desire, 

And  bind  him  vassal  to  most  lowly  will ! 

'Tis  by  necessity  that  he  breaks  away, 

From  earth  and  bondage  still ! 

The  soul  that  is  his  substance  warms  with  ire. 

Impatient  of  each  profitless  delay  ; 

And  though  the  song  of  the  siren  in  his  ear, 

Works  subtly  in  sweet  mazes  to  his  brain. 

Yet  ever  a  still  voice  of  sadness  tells 

Of  the  past  struggle,  and  the  bitter  care, 

That  kept  him  captived  ever  and  in  pain. 


THE  BARD.  83 

Thus  warn'd,  his  better  nature  soon  rebels, 

And  the  false  syren  glozes  still  in  vain. 

Taught  that  a  wing  so  nerved,  need  never  pause 

For  rest  which  humble  pinion  may  require, 

He  looks  to  far  Parnassus,  and  takes  hues, 

Golden  and  azure,  from  the  endowed  shapes 

That  linger  still  above  its  sacred  heights ; 

And,  with  the  glad  persuasion  of  his  song, 

An  emulous  passion  stimulates  his  wing, 

So  that  he  passes  by  the  guardian  capes, 

Triumphant,  and,  with  progress  of  his  own, 

He  challenges  each  proud  and  antique  Muse, 

By  her  own  altars,  to  the  great  delights, 

She  has  made  holy : — not  that  he  would  wring, 

With  proud  compulsion,  sad  acknowledgment, 

As  of  the  presence  of  some  nobler  thing  ; 

But  that  he  fortifies  the  ancient  cause, 

Which  many,  by  her  own  persuasions  chuse, — 

With  meet  example  ; — and3  her  crown  reset, 

Doth,  by  his  might,  her  primitive  sway  prolong. — 

He  sings,  as  she  hath  tutored  him  to  sing, 

A  chaunt  of  ages  that  sustains  her  throne, 

By  catholic  utterance  of  the  great  intent 

Which  makes  her  mission  hallowed,  and  for  aye, 

And,  through  a  chosen  race,  o'er  all  asserts  its  sway ! 

VI. 

'Twere  vain  to  scan  his  office,  and  declare 

The  power  he  holds  upon  the  earth  and  air, 

And  the  sleek  spirits  that  move  them  to  their  moods  ; 

He  is  the  sov'ran  of  the  spell  that  sways 

The  groves  in  their  spring  sweetness — he  hath  power 

To  bring  a  sudden  freshness  to  the  hour, 

Charm  the  green  leaf,  endow  the  purple  flow'r, 

And  haunt  with  such  a  presence  the  great  floods, 

That  there  shall  grow  a  glory  on  their  banks, 

And  men  shall  gather  from  afar  in  ranks, 

And  bend  before  high  altars  he  shall  raise, 

And  speak  with  voices  only  won  from  him  ! 


84  THE  EYE  AND  THE  WING. 

He  shall  bring  beauty  to  the  waste,  and  light 

With  bloom  the  wilderness,  and  so  subdue 

The  terrors  of  the  shade,  that  it  shall  be 

Made  sacred,  with  a  halo,  when  most  dim ; 

So  that  its  dark,  made  beautiful  to  view, 

Shall  move  new  passion  in  the  multitude, 

To  love  the  shadow  whose  obscurity 

Hath  lovelier  eyes  than  haunt  the  night,  and  brood 

Sad-smiling  o'er  still  fountains  that  awake, 

To  fill  their  cisterns  only  for  her  sake  ! 

For  it  hath  been  decreed  his  office  still 

To  summon  natural  destinies,  and  invoke, 

As  with  the  simple  utterance  of  his  will, 

The  nimble  servitors  that  love  his  yoke. 

So,  the  devoted  Passions  hail  his  sway, 

And  Joy  and  Grief,  with  their  link'd  torches,  glide, 

Mute  ever,  but  not  heedless,  night  and  day, 

Serving  his  purpose,  one  on  either  side. 

And  hope,  which  is  a  feather  from  his  plumes, 

Now  sinks,  now  falls,  like  shooting  star  through  night, 

And,  even  in  falling,  the  abyss  illumes, — 

As  memory  of  the  first  joy  brings  a  light 

To  the  sad  eyes  inhabited  by  wo — 

The  waving  of  a  torch  o'er  mountain  lake, 

At  midnight,  while  the  storm-cloud,  stooping  low, 

Hath  iced  it  with  a  blackness  nought  may  break. 

Nor  is  he  wanting  in  celestial  aid, 

Love  being  his  meekest  servitor,  with  brow 

Twined  with  the  myrtle,  ever  speaking  truth, 

That  never  fears  the  forfeit  of  his  vow, 

And,  bashful  in  her  bright,  but  unafraid, 

Bearing  the  rose  that  symbols  innocent  youth. 

VII. 

Not  lonely,  with  the  sad  nymph  Solitude, 
Deep  in  the  cover  of  the  ancient  wood, 
Where  the  sun  leaves  him,  and  the  happy  dawn, 
Stealing  with  blushes  over  the  grey  lawn, 
Still  finds  him,  all  forgetful  of  the  flight 


THE  BARD.  85 

Of  hours,  that  passing  still  from  dark  to  bright. 
Know  not  to  loiter, — all  their  progress  naught : — 
His  eye,  unconscious  of  the  day,  is  bright 
With  inward  vision  ;  till,  as  sudden  freed, 
By  the  superior  quest  of  a  proud  thought, 
He  darts  away  with  an  unmeasured  speed ; 
His  pinion  purpling  as  he  gains  the  height, 
Where  still,  though  all  obscured  from  mortal  sight,. 
He  bathes  him  in  the  late  smiles  of  the  sun ; — 
And  O  !  the  glory,  as  he  guides  his  steed, 
Flakes  from  his  pinions  falling,  as  they  soar 
To  mounts  where  Eos  binds  her  buskins  on, 
And  proud  Artemis,  watching  by  her  well, 
For  one, — sole-fortunate  of  all  his  race, — 
With  hand  upon  his  mouth  her  beagle  stays, 
Lest  he  should  baffle  sounds  too  sweet  to  lose, 
That  even  now  are  gliding  with  the  dews. 
How  nobly  he  arrays 

His  robes  for  flight, — his  robes,  the  woven  of  songs, 
Borrow'd  from  starry  spheres, — with  each  a  muse 
That,  with  her  harmonies,  maintains  its  dance 
Celestial,  and  its  circles  bright  prolongs. 
Fair  ever,  but  with  warrior  form  and  face, 
He  stands  before  the  eye  of  each  young  grace, 
Beguiling  the  sweet  passion  from  her  cell, 
And  still  subjecting  beauty  by  the  glance, 
Which  speaks  his  own  subjection  to  a  spell, 
The  eldest  born  of  rapture,  that  makes  Love, 
At  once  submissive  and  the  Conqueror. 
He  conquers  but  to  bring  deliverance, 
And  with  deliverance  light ; — 
To  conquer,  he  has  only  to  explore, — 
And  makes  a  permanent  empire,  but  to  spread, — 
Though  speeding  on  with  unobserving  haste, — 
A  wing  above  the  waste. — 
A  single  feather  from  his  pinion  shed, 
A  single  beam  of  beauty  from  his  eye, 
Takes  captive  the  dim  sleeping  realm  below, 
Through  eyes  of  truest  worshippers,  that  straight, 
8 


86  THE  EYE  AND  THE  WING. 

Bring  shouts  to  welcome  and  bright  flowers  to  wreathe 

His  altars ;  and,  as  those,  to  life  from  death, 

Pluck'd  sudden,  in  their  gratitude  and  faith 

Deem  him  a  God  who  wrought  the  miracle, — 

So  do  they  take  him  to  their  shrines,  and  vow 

Their  annual  incense  of  sweet  song  and  smell, 

For  him  to  whom  their  happiness  they  owe. 

Thus  goes  he  still  from  desert  shore  to  shore, 

Where  life  in  darkness  droops,  where  beauty  errs, 

Having  no  worshippers, 

And  lacking  sympathy  for  the  light ! — The  eye, 

That  is  the  spirit  of  his  wing,  no  more, 

This  progress  once  begun,  can  cease  to  soar, 

Suffers  eclipse,  or  sleeps  ! — 

No  more  be  furl'd 

The  wing, — that,  from  the  first  decreed  to  fly, 

Must  speed  to  daily  conquests,  deep  and  high, 

Till  no  domain  of  dark  unlighted  keeps, 

And  all  the  realm  of  strife  beneath  the  sky 

Grows  one,  in  beauty  and  peace  forever  more  ; — 

Soothed  to  eternal  office  of  delight, 

By  these  that  wing  the  soul  on  its  first  flight, 

For  these  are  the  great  spirits  that  shape  the  world  ! 


IMMORTALITY.  87 


IMMORTALITY. 


I. 

Beside  me,  in  a  dream  of  the  deep  night, 
Unsummon'd,  but  in  loveliness  array'd, 
Stood  a  warm,  blue-eyed  maid  ; 
And  the  night  fled  before  her,  and  the  bloom 
Of  her  eternal  beauty,  from  my  sight, 
Dispell'd  the  midnight  gloom. 

II. 

She  stood  beside  me,  and  her  white  hand  fell, 

A  touch  of  life  and  light  upon  my  brow, — 

That  straightway  felt  the  fresh'ning  waters  flow, 

As  from  a  heart  whose  tides  had  sudden  might, 

In  the  bright  presence  of  some  holy  spell, — 

Whose  smile  at  once  brought  strength  with  new  delight. 

III. 

And  in  her  voice  a  winningness  prevail'd, — 
A  music  born  of  waters,  that  go  free 
Through  forests  gladdened  in  their  greenery, 
And  lapsing  through  their  leaves,  as  in  a  play 
Of  song  and  bird,  by  flow'r  and  beam  regaled, 
Whose  pastimes  are  not  ended  with  the  day. 

IV. 

Hers  was  a  voice  of  wings  ; — the  linnet's  note, 
The  lark's  clear  morning  song  of  upper  skies, 
The  dove's  sweet  plaint  of  tenderness  and  sighs  ; — 
And  the  unparallel'd  life  within  her  own, 
Made  these  a  happier  music  than  they  brought, 
Unchorus'd,  when  they  carol'd  forth  alone  ! 


THE  EYE  AND  THE  WING. 

V. 

Her  eye  was  its  own  music, — its  own  flight, — 
As  if,  commercing  ever  with  the  spheres, 
It  strove  for  harmonies  to  mate  with  theirs, 
And  wings  to  pass  from  star  to  star  at  will ; — 
To  shun  the  province  yielded  up  to  night, 
For  realms  of  brightness,  still  ! 

VI. 

The  living  speech  upon  her  lips,  in  fire, 
Rose,  swelling,  like  a  soul ; — while,  in  her  eye, 
The  truth  that  blossoms  with  divinity, 
Rayed  out  with  golden  brightness,  and  awoke 
Within  my  heart  a  pulse  of  new  desire, 
That  burst  each  ancient  yoke. 

VII. 

Then,  in  my  rapture,  I  had  lain  my  head 
Upon  the  soft  swell  of  that  happy  round, 
That  rose  up,  like  a  white,  celestial  mound, — 
As  saying, — "  bring  your  gifts  to  this  one  shrine  ;" 
But  that  her  brow's  clear  will  soon  banished 
The  fond  resolve  from  mine  ! 

VIII 

I  did  not  quail  or  tremble  at  her  glance, 
For  still  it  seem'd  as  she  were  there  to  bring 
New  loves  to  crown  my  hope,  a  newer  wing, 
And  open  better  provinces  of  life  ;  — 
Within  her  smile  I  saw  deliverance, 
And  broad,  new  realms  for  strife. 

IX. 

Yet  broken  was  my  speech,  and  forth  I  stood, 
Despairing,  though  immers'd  in  certain  bliss, 
Lest  I  should  lose,  in  my  soul's  feebleness, 
The  embrace  that  now  seem'd  needful  to  content ; 
And  tears  were  all  that  the  impetuous  blood 
Vouchsafed,  of  all  it  meant ! 


IMMORTALITY. 

X. 

Then  sweeter  grew  the  smile  upon  her  face, 
As,  conscious  of  my  suffering  and  my  truth, 
Her  heart  for  mine  was  sudden  smit  with  ruth  ; 
And  she  made  answer,  not  with  human  word, — 
But  in  her  smile,  and  the  intelligent  grace 
Of  motion,  was  she  heard. 

XL 

"Thy  wish  is  thy  performance,"  said  she  then; — 
"And  thou  wilt  take  me  to  thy  arms  anon, 
When  thou  hast  put  thy  loftier  nature  on, 
And  made  me  the  sole  passion  in  thy  heart ; 
But  not  for  thee,  when  we  shall  meet  again, 
To  be  what  now  thou  art ! 

XII. 

"And  'tis  for  thy  soliciting  to  say, 

Whether  my  form  will  show  to  thee  as  now ; — 

It  may  be  thou  wilt  shrink  to  see  the  brow, 

Which,  though  in  loveliness  it  now  appears, 

May  so  affront  thee,  thou  wilt  turn  away 

In  terror  and  in  tears  ! 

XIII. 

"If  that  the  passion  thou  hast  felt  for  me, 
Live  in  thy  future  memory,  thou  wilt  raise 
Thy  altar,  and  thy  anthem,  in  my  praise  ; 
And  I  will  light  thy  fires,  and  wing  thy  strain  ; — 
But  if  I  lose  thee  from  my  love,  for  thee, 
My  presence  must  be  pain. 

XIV. 

"  'Tis  written,  we  shall  meet ; — 'tis  written  more, 
Thou  shalt  be  mine,  I  thine  ;  and  we  must  go, 
Forever  link'd,  through  ages  that  still  flow 
From  founts  of  time  eternal,  to  no  end, 
Save  one  of  toil,  which  we  may  both  deplore, 
Or  covet,  as  thy  single  wishes  tend. 
8*, 


90  THE  EYE  AND  THE  WING. 

XV. 

"Our  future  is  performance !     Worlds  are  placed 
Around  us  for  possession  ;  and,  in  these, 
We  make  our  separate  mansions  as  we  please, 
And  choose  the  separate  tasks  that  each  fulfil ; 
In  these,  or  happy  and  blest, — or,  low  debased, — 
Must  wait  upon  thy  will. 

XVI. 

"And  thus,  in  a  brief  vision  of  the  night, 
I  show  thee  what  I  am,  that  thou  may'st  see, 
How  great  the  blessings  that  still  wait  on  thee, 
Even  at  thy  pleasure  : — Could  I  show  thee  more, 
Then  should  thy  wonder  grow  with  thy  delight, 
At  what  is  in  my  store. 

XVII. 

"I  come  not  with  denial,  though  I  now 

Deny  thee  my  embrace  ; — thy  head  shall  lie 

Upon  this  bosom — on  thy  doubtful  eye, 

This  form  shall  rise  at  last,  whate'er  thou  beest ; 

For  thee  to  say,  how  fair  shall  be  the  brow, 

How  bright  the  eye,  which,  in  that  day,  thou  seest. 

XVIII. 

"  Oh  !  'tis  to  all  my  charms  that  I  entreat 

Thy  coming  ; — thou  shalt  have  my  crown  and  wings  ; 

For  thee,  the  bird  that  late  and  early  sings, 

When  hope  is  at  the  entrance,  shall  appear  ; 

And  we  will  glide,  with  pinions  at  our  feet, 

To  tasks  by  Love  made  dear  ! 

XIX. 

"Come  to  me  then,  beloved  one,  with  thy  heart 
Made  pure  in  my  remembrance — with  thy  thought, 
By  hope  of  triumph  in  mine,  forever  taught 
To  seek  the  unnamed  condition  of  delight ;  — 
So  shall  I  meet  thee,  fond  as  now  thou  art, 
Thou  me,  as  now  I  seem  unto  thy  sight !" 


IMAGINATION.  91 

XX. 

Rapture,  O  !  Rapture  !  wherefore  wert  thou  born 
So  soon  to  perish  !  .  .  .  .  thou,  a  part  of  death, 
Art  lost  to  being  with  thy  first  sweet  breath, 
And  lifelong-,  then,  we  mourn  thee  with  an  eye 
Turned  outwards,  inwards — with  the  look  forlorn, 
Too  happy,  if  it  seeks  for  thee  on  high  ! 


IMAGINATION. 


He  is  a  God  who  wills  it, — with  a  power 

To  work  his  purpose  out  in  earth  and  air, 

Though  neither  speak  him  fair  ! — 

So  may  he  pluck  from  earth  its  precious  fluw'r, 

And  in  the  ether  choose  a  spirit  rare, 

To  serve  him  deftly  in  some  other  sphere  ; — 

And  thus  it  is  that  I  have  wilPd  this  hour, 

And  thou  hast  heard  me,  and  thy  form  is  here  ! 

II. 

Creature  of  wing  and  eye, 

That,  singing,  seek'st  the  sky, 

And  soar'st  because  thou  sing'st,  and  singing,  still  must  fly 

Believe  me,  though  I  know  not  mine  own  voice, 

I  see  thee,  and  before  thee  I  rejoice  ; 

Thou,  precious  in  both  worlds,  with  thy  sole  choice 

In  ours,  I  bless  thee  that  I  knew  thee  first, 

Ere  in  the  dawn  of  mortal  joys  my  heart, 

Low-fashioned  by  its  fond  caprice  and  art, 

Had  been  for  thy  blest  offices  accurst ; — 


92  THE  EYE  AND  THE  WING. 

Denied  the  commerce  of  thy  griefs  which  bring 

The  wholesome  of  Love's  sweetness  with  the  sting  ; — 

The  love  which  Sin  hath  nurst, — 

But  nursing,  could  not  keep, — 

Soothed  by  delicious  dews,  the  soul  that  steep, 

And  circumvent  the  wing  ! — 

Oh  !  thou  hast  heard  me ; — heard  me  and  com'st  down, 

Amid  the  silence  and  the  shade,  a  gleam  ; 

I  see  the  glimmer  of  thy  golden  crown, 

I  feel  thy  wing  in  murmur,  and  I  dream — 

Dream  of  thy  pleasant  provinces,  which  lie 

Still  open  to  the  conqueror,  who,  no  more 

May  rifle,  than  resist,  thy  precious  store, 

Which  grows,  the  more  he  spoils,  the  more  beneath  his  eye  ! 

III. 

Oh  !  thou  hast  heard  me  with  no  jealous  grace, — 

Hast  heard  me,  and  approv'st  the  daring  quest, 

Which,  heedless  of  this  lowliness  of  place, 

Would  build  thee  here  a  shrine, — and,  to  my  breast, 

Implore  thee,  that  I  may  be  lifted  high 

To  thy  vast  realms  that  still  entreat  mine  eye, 

Shining  through  fields  of  vision,  by  the  star, 

Most  sacred,  which,  at  evening  and  at  dawn, 

First  comes  to  teach  us  where  the  bright  ones  are, 

Each,  in  his  place,  upon  the  heavenly  lawn  ; — 

All  open  to  thy  wing,  that,  dusk  and  day, 

Descend'st  and  risest, — lifting,  at  each  flight, 

Some  hopeful  spirit,  that,  beneath  thy  ray, 

Grows  fitted  to  a  world  of  more  delight ! — 

Oh  !  not  to  thee  to  censure  lowliness, 

Save  in  the  soul,  which,  grovelling  as  it  goes, 

Sees  not  the  bright  wings  that  descend  to  bless, 

And  will  not  seek  where  the  true  fountain  flows  ! 

And  he  whom  man  denies, 

Hath  but  to  lift  his  eyes, 

Touch'd  by  thy  breath,  fresh-parted  from  the  skies,  . 

And  the  walls  tumble  outward  that  did  bound, 

And,  skyward,  the  blue  deepens  ;  and,  in  air, 


IMAGINATION.  9c 

A  flutter  of  the  happiest  wings  is  found, 

Diffusing  sweets  that  earth  still  finds  too  rare  ; — 

And  faith  takes  both  her  wings, 

Will,  that  o'er  mortal  things, 

Still  sways,  as  doth  the  wand  o'er  hidden  springs  ; 

And  Love,  that,  in  her  trust, 

Holds  empire  over  dust, 

And  lifts  to  very  life  the  soul  to  which  she  clings ! 

These  grow  to  freedom  with  thy  downward  flight, 

While  the  gross  earth,  bedarken'd  in  the  bright, 

That  kindles  on  his  sight, 

Feels  all  its  pomps  grow  nought, 

Subject  to  that  great  thought, 

Borne  on  thy  matchless  plumes,  by  which  the  soul  is  taught. 

IV. 

I  know  my  undeserving — know  how  vain 

The  poor  equivalent  of  love  I  bring, 

And  yet  once  more  I  do  solicit  thee  ; — 

Again  !  O  !  yet  again  ! 

Sit  by  me  as  thou  didst,  my  beautiful ! 

When  life  was  but  a  blossom  of  the  spring, 

And  thou  its  zephyr — sit  by  me  and  sing. 

Thy  voice  of  tears  will  medicine  the  gloom 

That  hangs  about  my  spirit,  and  set  free 

That  bird  of  faith  that  only  finds  its  wing 

In  thy  melodious  coming.     Chase  away 

These  threatening  shapes  that  cloud  my  lonely  room, 

And  wrap  me  in  their  moody  grasp  all  day  ! 

Come, — for  thou  only  canst — O  !  come  and  lull, 

With  the  sweet  reedy  music  of  thy  tone, 

The  weary  spirit  left  too  much  alone 

By  the  gay  strollers  of  this  idle  time  ; 

Yet,  deem  me  not  irreverent  when  I  ask  ! — 

With  thee,  the  creature  of  the  wing  and  eye, — 

A  bird-flight  not  a  task  ! — 

'Twere  easy  to  adjure,  from  stars  sublime, 

Such  mighty  sorrows,  as,  through  these  old'  walls, 

Would  leave  a  thousand  echoes  gushing  free, 


94  THE  EYE  AND  THE  WING. 

At  every  trailing  of  a  spirit's  train  ; — 

Recalling  still  that  strain, 

That  woke  me  to  thy  presence  first,  when  far, 

Led  by  a  single  star, 

And  following  in  the  wake  of  fancies  sweet, 

I  wandered  deep  into  the  mountain  halls, 

And  ever,  through  the  flashes  of  the  storm, 

Beheld  a  flitting  form  ; 

And  heard,  when  winds  grew  hush'd,  the  sounds  of  falling  feet ! 

V. 

I  know,  with  various  wing  that  thou  canst  soar 

To  realms  that  know  no  sorrow — that  thy  flight 

Can  waft  thee  to  vain  regions  of  delight, 

Where  wings  may  rather  wanton  than  explore  ; — 

But  not  to  provinces  like  these  I  pray 

Thy  pinions  ; — nor  for  me  that  idle  lore, 

That  only  seeks  to  wile,  or  win,  by  art, 

The  vigilant  hours  that  watch  through  the  long  day  ; — 

Those  foolish  madrigals  that  chase  away, 

As  old  men  laugh,  time's  wrinkles  ; — the  vain  joke 

That  shakes  the  theatre,  while,  for  the  nonce, 

The  buffoon  triumphs  in  the  sage's  cloak, 

And  wisdom,  all  forgetful  of  his  part, 

Grows  heedless  of  the  white  upon  his  sconce, 

Nor  deafens  as  he  shakes  his  borrow'd  bells  !  —  • 

Nor  should  you  win  me  when  the  drama  tells 

The  sportive  passions  of  that  wayward  God, 

Who,  riding  Lybia's  lion,  yet  with  craft, 

Still  wings  his  wanton  shaft, 

Subduing  mightiest  spirits  into  shame  ; 

Till  lowlier  men  grow  scornful  of  the  fame, 

That  took  the  name  of  glory,  ere  the  sport 

Of  that  boy-archer  shook  their  high  report ! — 

As  Love  is  in  thy  office,  let  the  strain, 

That  teaches  me  his  affluence,  be  implored 

From  the  full  heart  and  the  sincerest  thought ; — 

As  if  the  captive  thus  had  been  restored 

To  passions  of  great  pride  and  purest  gain, — 


IMAGINATION.  95 

Such  as,  by  truth  made  plain, 

Had  never  partaken  of  the  pernicious  fruit 

That  held  the  reptile  in  its  core,  and  brought 

Caprice,  that  ever  must  the  soul  imbrute  ! 

Bring  me  to  knowledge  of  that  nobler  flame 

That  never  clouds  with  shame ; 

That  freely  may  declare  its  aim  and  birth, 

Nor  glow,  all  doubtful  of  its  proper  name, 

Impure,  unhallowed,  on  the  hallowed  hearth  ! 

Mine  be  the  creature  of  a  faith  that  brooks 

No  fashioning  art  or  offices  of  man  ; 

But,  for  its  laws  and  properties,  still  looks 

To  the  true  purpose,  first  in  nature's  plan, 

Decreed,  ere  rolling  spheres  and  twinkling  orbs  began. 

VI. 

Thine  is  the  night,  the  cloud,  the  lone,  the  far ; 
Thou  bring'st  to  night  her  star  : 
The  cloud  from  thee  receives  its  wing  for  flight, 
And,  clothed  in  purple  light, 
Goes  sailing,  richly  freighted,  to  the  sea  ! — 
And  thou  hast  cheer'd  the  solitude  for  me  ; — 
Hast  borne  me,  when  the  fetters  of  earth  hid  worn 
Into  the  soul  its  scorpion  lash  had  torn, — 
Borne  me,  triumphant,  from  my  lonely  cell, 
To  freedom,  in  far  empires  of  the  night ; — 
The  freedom  of  the  rugged  mountain's  height ; 
The  strange  companions  of  the  haunted  dell ; 
Great  fields  of  blue,  star-lighted, — while  the  cloud 
Lay  mantling  o'er  the  city  like  a  shroud, 
And  all  behind  was  sad,  and  all  before  was  bright ! 
Long  vistas  of  the  wood  were  wooing, — gay 
Sprinkt  with  the  droplets  which  the  sun  had  left, 
Fast  hurrying,  having  loiter'd  on  his  way  ; — 
These,  in  green  thick  close  hid,  and  rocky  cleft, 
Made  rich  the  solemn  shadows  of  the  wood  ; 
So  that  the  pilgrim,  consciously  astray, 
Might  wander  still,  since  all  around  was  good. 
Thus  night  is  in  thy  keeping  !     Thou  alone, 


96  THE  EYE  AND  THE  WING. 

Canst  take  the  veil  from  off  her  matron  brow, 

And  bid  the  dreamer  gladden  in  her  sight. 

Thou  mak'st  the  secrets  of  her  mansion  known, 

Her  mansion,  gloomy  with  excess  of  bright ; — 

And,  from  its  wealth,  surpassing  mortal  show 

The  starr'd  luxuriance  of  her  pillar'd  throne, 

Thou  canst  extort  her  music — a  lament 

As  if  the  stars  and  winds  together  made 

A  requiem  o'er  the  glories  that  must  fade, — 

Such  as  might  issue,  on  a  God's  descent, 

From  some  high  sphere  his  presence  once  had  sway'd. 

'Tis  thine  to  put  a  soul  into  this  train, 

While  earth  is  sleeping — blasted  from  her  birth, 

Into  unmusical  barrenness  and  dearth, 

Such  as  might  move  her  ne'er  to  wake  again, 

Did  it  not  pleasure  her  vain  pride  to  spoil, 

With  keen  and  clamorous  coil, 

The  delicate  labors  of  our  secret  toil ; 

To  break  upon  the  midnight  watch  we  keep — 

Forgetting  sleep, 

Here,  charming  night  and  silence  from  the  deep, 

Stars  stooping  round  us  ever  as  they  shine, 

While  wings,  from  off  thy  shoulders,  grow  to  mine. 


EGERIA.  97 


EGERIA. 


I. 

The  worshipper  of  nature  and  the  heart, 

May  in  the  lonely  forest-depths  survey 
The  spirit  which  has  made  thee  what  thou  art, 

And  crown'd  with  living  loveliness  thy  lay; — 
There  hast  thou  caught  the  breathings  from  a  shrine 

Too  high  for  low  devotion  ;  and  hast  felt 
How  much  may  sorrow's  oracle  divine, 

When  its  faint  echoes  thus  o'ercome  and  melt ; — 
Beauty  thou  breathest  o'er  the  inanimate  vale, 

And  in  the  night  of  silence,  dost  receive, 
From  voices  long  forgotten,  such  a  tale 

As  grief  may  love  to  hear,  and  grieving  love  believe.. 

II. 

Ah  !  voices  that  have  spoke  to  thee  in  power, 

Yet  with  an  accent  so  subdued  and  sweet, 
They  might  have  found  their  being  in  the  flower, 

Such  as  implores  thee,  smiling  at  thy  feet ; — 
These  have  confirmed  thee  in  the  happier  faith, 

That  brought  thee  to  indulgence,  and  did  make 
Thy  heart  forgetful  of  its  scorn  and  scaith, 

And  blessing  all  of  earth  for  nature's  sake. 
The  storms  that  shake  the  blue  and  fretted  vault, 

Came  not  within  thy  mission  ;  but,  for  thee, 
Life's  office  is  to  soothe  and  to  exalt, 

To  mould  and  not  o'erthrow,  to  bind  and  not  to  free- 
Ill. 
Blessings  upon  thy  fetters  !  which  have  given 

The  freedom  which  the  winged  nature  craves ; — 
Subjection  first,  and  ere  the  seal  is  riven, 

Such  chastening  as  becomes  the  worst  of  slaves ; 
9 


98  THE  EYE  AND  THE  WING. 

The  blindness  which  is  born  of  profligate  will, 

To  couch, — and  tJie  insanity  which  has  its  birth 
In  base  self-worship  and  delusion  still, 

To  trample  down,  deep  down,  in  native  earth. 
Nor  hard  to  thee  these  offices,  whose  power, 

So  child-like  in  its  exercise,  declares 
The  freshness  and  the  pureness  of  a  dower, 

That  never  lost  its  innocence  in  tears. 

IV. 

These  make  the  harmony  that  works  in  thee  ; — 

And  thus  boon  nature  to  thy  strength  has  given, 
The  rugged  fetters  of  the  heart  to  free, 

As  with  the  utterance  of  a  word  in  Heaven. 
Thus  do  thy  attributes  of  voice  and  eye, 

Grow  to  an  essence  exquisite  and  strong, — 
As  sounds  that  glow  to  stars  when  lifted  high, 

As  stars  that,  as  they  kindle,  sink  to  song. 
The  waters,  'neath  a  will  thus  married,  break 

The  seal  that  shut  the  fountain ;  and  the  soul 
Assumes  that  noble  aspect  it  must  take, 

If  thou  would'st  love,  and  God  endow  the  whole. 

V. 

Go  forth,  in  mercy,  minister  of  gladness, 

Whose  pulses  sway  the  musical  cords  which  bind 
The  links  of  the  selected  ;  and  from  sadness 

Draw  the  best  elements  for  heart  and  mind. 
Set  free  thy  doves  of  nurture  ; — let  thy  song, 

Sweet  song  of  meekness,  bosom-toned  and  deep, 
Touch,  and  revive,  the  wounded  hearts  that  long 

Have  only  lived  to  want  thee,  and  to  weep  ; — 
Oh  !  be  thy  spirit  on  the  wild  again, 

And  let  thy  waters,  from  their  blue  abode, 
Bear  gently  forth  the  melancholy  strain, 

Sweet  strain,  sad  strain,  dear  music  sent  from  God. 


ILENOVAR. 


99 


ILENOVAR, 


FROM  A  STORY  OF  PALENQUE. 


A  FRAGMENT. 


WEARY,  but  now  no  longer  girt  by  foes, 

He  darkly  stood  beside  that  sullen  wave, 
Watching  the  sullen  waters,  whose  repose 

Imaged  the  gloomy  shadows  in  his  heart; 
Vultures,  that,  in  the  greed  of  appetite, 
Still  sating  blind  their  passionate  delight, 
Lose  all  the  wing  for  flight, 

And,  brooding  deafly  o'er  the  prey  they  tear, 
Hear  never  the  low  voice  that  cries,  "  depart, 

Lest  with  the  surfeit  you  partake  the  snare  !" 
Thus  fixed  by  brooding  and  rapacious  thought, 

Stood  the  dark  chieftain  by  the  gloomy  stream, 
When,  suddenly,  his  ear 

A  far  off  murmur  caught, 
Low,  deep,  impending,  as  of  trooping  winds, 

Up  from  his  father's  grave, — 
That  ever  still  some  fearful  echoes  gave, 

Such  as  had  lately  warn'd  him  in  his  dream, 
Of  all  that  he  had  lost — of  all  he  still  might  save  ! 

Well  knew  he  of  the  sacrilege  that  made 
That  sacred  vault,  where  thrice  two  hundred  kings 

Were  in  their  royal  pomp  and  purple  laid, 
Refuge  for  meanest  things  ! — 

Well  knew  he  of  the  horrid  midnight  rite, 
And  the  foul  orgies,  and  the  treacherous  spell, 

By  those  dread  magians  nightly  practised  there  ; 
And  who  the  destined  victim  of  their  art ; — 

But,  as  he  feels  the  sacred  amulet 


100  THE  EYE  AND  THE  WING. 

That  clips  his  neck  and  trembles  at  his  breast — 

As  once  did  she  who  gave  it — he  hath  set 
His  resolute  spirit  to  its  work,  and  well 

His  great  soul  answers  to  the  threatening  dread, 

Those  voices  from  the  mansions  of  the  dead ! 
Upon  the  earth,  like  stone, 
He  crouched  in  silence  ;  and  his  keen  ear,  prone, 

Kissed  the  cold  ground  in  watchfulness,  not  fear ! 
But  soon  he  rose  in  fright, 

For,  as  the  sounds  grew  near, 
He  feels  the  accents  never  were  of  earth  : 
They  have  a  wilder  birth 

Than  in  the  council  of  his  enemies  ; 
And  he,  the  man,  who,  having  but  one  life, 
Hath  risked  a  thousand  in  unequal  strife, 

Now,  in  the  night  and  silence,  sudden  finds 
A  terror,  at  whose  touch  his  manhood  flies. 

The  blood  grows  cold  and  freezes  in  his  veins, 
His  heart  sinks,  and  upon  his  lips  the  breath 
Curdles,  as  if  in  death  ! 

Vainly  he  strives  in  flight, 
His  trembling  knees  deny — his  strength  is  gone  ! 

As  one  who,  in  the  depth  of  the  dark  night, 
Groping  through  chambered  ruins,  lays  his  hands 

On  cold  and  clammy  bones,  and  glutinous  brains. 

The  murdered  man's  remains — 
Thus  rooted  to  the  dread  spot  stood  the  chief, 

When,  from  the  tomb  of  ages  came  the  sound, 
As  of  a  strong  man's  grief; 

His  heart  denied  its  blood — his  brain  spun  round — 

He  s.ank  upon  the  ground  ! 

'T  was  but  an  instant  to  the  dust  he  clung ; 

The  murmurs  grew  about  him  like  a  cloud — 
He  breathed  an  atmosphere  of  spirit-voices, 

Most  sighing  sad,  but  with  a  sound  between, 
As  of  one  born  to  hope  that  still  rejoices, 

In  a  sweet  foreign  tongue, 
That  seemed  exulting,  starting  from  its  shroud 


ILENOVAR.  101 

To  a  new  rapture  for  the  first  time  seen ! 
This  better  voice,  as  with  a  crowning  spell, 
On  the  chief's  spirit  fell  r 

Up  starting  from  the  earth,  he  cried  aloud  : 
"Ah  !  thou  art  there,  ahd  well ! 

I  thank  thee,  thou  sweet  life,  that  unto  me 
Art  life  no  longer — thou  hast  brought  me  life, 
Such  as  shall  make  thy  murderers  dread  the  strife. 

But  for  thy  ear  a  gentler  speech  be  mine, 
And  I  will  wait  until  the  terrible  hour 

Hath  past,  and  I  may  wholly  then  be  thine  ! 
Now  am  I  sworn  until  a  wilder  power, 
But  none  so  dear  or  precious,  sweetest  flower, 
That  ever,  when  Palenque  possessed  her  tower 

And  white-robed  priesthood,  wert,  of  all  thy  race, 

Most  queenly,  and  the  soul  of  truth  and  grace  ; — 
Blossom  of  beauty,  that  I  could  not  keep, 

And  know  not  to  resign — 
I  would,  but  cannot  weep  ! 

These  are  not  tears,  my  father,  but  hot  blood 
That  fills  the  warrior's  eyes  ; 

For  every  drop  that  falls,  a  mighty  flood 
Our  foemen's  hearts  shall  yield  us,  when  the  dawn 

Begins  of  that  last  day, 
Whose  red  light  ushers  in  the  fatal  fray, 

Such  as  shall  bring  us  back  old  victories, 
Or  of  the  empire,  evermore  withdrawn, 

Shall  make  a  realm  of  silence  and  of  gloom, 

Where  all  may  read  the  doom, 
But  none  shall  dream  the  horrid  history ! 
I  do  not  weep — I  do  not  shrink— I  cry 
For  the  fierce  strife  and  vengeance  !     Taught  by  thee, 
No  other  thought  I  see  ! 
My  hope  is  strong  within,  my  limbs  are  free  ; — 

My  arms  would  strike  the  foe — my  feet  would  fly, 
Where  now  he  rides  triumphant  in  his  sway — 

And  though  within  my  soul  a  sorrow  deep 
Makes  thought  a  horror-haunting  memory, 

I  do  not,  will  not  weep!" 
9* 


102  THE  EYE  AND  THE  WING. 

*-" 

Then  swore  he— and  he  called  the  tree  whose  growth 

Of  past  and  solemn  centuries  made  it  wear 

An  ancient,  god-like  air, 
To  register  his  deep  and  passionate  oath. 

Hate  to  the  last  he  swore — a  wild  revenge, 
Such  as  no  chance  can  change, 

Vowed  he  before  those  during  witnesses, 
Rocks,  waters  and  old  trees!  — 

And,  in  that  midnight  hour, 
No  sound  from  nature  broke — 
No  sound  save  that  he  spoke, 

No  sound  from  spirits  hushed  and  listening  nigh  I 
His  was  an  oath  of  power — 

A  prince's  pledge  for  vengeance  to  his  race — 

To  twice  two  hundred  years  of  royalty — 
That  still  the  unbroken  sceptre  should  have  sway, 
While  yet  one  subject  warrior  might  obey, 

Or  one  great  soul  avenge  a  realm's  disgrace  ! 
It  was  a  pledge  of  vengeance,  for  long  years, 

Borne  by  his  trampled  people  for  a  dower, 
Of  bitterness  and  tears  ; — 

Homes  rifled,  hopes  defeated,  feelings  torn 

By  a  fierce  conqueror's  scorn  ; 
The  national  gods  o'erthrown  — treasure  and  blood, 
Once  boundless  as  the  flood, 

That  'neath  his  fixed  and  unforgiving  eye 

Crept  onward  silently  ; 

Scattered  and  squandered  wantonly,  by  bands, 
Leaguered  in  shame,  the  scum  of  foreign  lands, 

Sent  forth  to  lengthen  out  their  infamy, 
With  the  wild  banquet  of  a  pampered  mood. 

Even  as  he  swore,  his  eye 

Grew  kindled  with  a  fierce  and  flaming  blight, 
Red-lowering  like  the  sky, 

When,  heralding  the  tempest  in  his  might, 
The  muttering  clouds  march  forth  and  form  on  high, 
With  sable  banners  and  grim  majesty. 
Beneath  his  frowning  brow  a  shaft  of  fire, 


ILENOVAR.  103 

That  told  the  lurking  ire, 

Shot  ever  forth,  outflashing  through  the  gloom 

It  could  not  well  illume, 

Making  the  swarthy  cheeks  on  which  it  fell 

Seem  trenched  with  scarred  lines  of  hate  and  hell. 

Then  heaved  his  breast  with  all  the  deep  delight 

The  warrior  finds  in  promise  of  the  fight, 

Who  seeks  for  vengeance  in  his  victory. 
For,  in  the  sudden  silence  in  the  air, 
He  knew  how  gracious  was  the  audience  there  ; 
He  heard  the  wings  unfolding  at  the  close, 

And  the  soft  voice  that  cheered  him  once  before 
Now  into  utterance  rose  : 
One  whispered  word, 

One  parting  tone, 
And  then  a  fragrant  flight  of  wings  was  heard, 

And  she  was  gone,  was  gone  — 

Yet  was  he  not  alone  !  not  all  alone  ! 

Thus,  having  sworn, — the  old  and  witnessing  tree 

Bent  down,  and  in  his  branches  register'd 

Each  dark  and  passionate  word  ; 

And  on  the  rocks,  trench'd  in  their  shapeless  sides, 

The  terrible  oath  abides  ; 

And  the  dark  waters,  muttering  to  their,  waves, 

Bore  to  their  secret  mansions  and  dim  caves 

The  vow  of  death  they  heard. 
Thus  were  the  dead  appeased — the  listening  dead — • 

For,  as  the  warrior  paused,  a  cold  breath  came, 

Wrapping  with  ice  his  frame, 
A  cold  hand  pressing  on  his  heart  and  head ; 

Entranced  and  motionless, 
Upon  the  earth  he  lies, 

While  a  dread  picture  of  the  land's  distress 
Rose  up  before  his  eyes. 
First  came  old  Hilluah's  shadow,  with  the  ring 
About  his  brow — the  sceptre  in  his  hand, 

Ensigns  of  glorious  and  supreme  command, 
Proofs  of  the  conqueror,  honored  in  the  king. 


104  THE  EYE  AND  THE  WING. 

"  Ilenovar  !  Ilenovar!"  he  cried  : 

Vainly  the  chief  replied  ; — 

He  strove  to  rise  for  homage,  but  in  vain — 

The  deathlike  spell  was  on  him  like  a  chain, 

And  his  clogg'd  tongue,  that  still  he  strove  to  teach, 

Denied  all  answering  speech  ! 

The  monarch  bade  him  mark 

The  clotted  blood  that,  dark, 

Distained  his  royal  bosom,  and  that  found 

Its  way,  still  issuing  from  a  mortal  wound, 

Ghastly,  and  gaping  wide,  upon  his  throat ! 
The  shadow  passed — another  took  his  place, 
Of  the  same  royal  race  ; 
The  noble  Yumuri,  the  only  son 
Of  the  old  monarch,  heir  to  his  high  throne, 
Cut  off  by  cunning  in  his  youthful  pride  ; 
There  was  the  murderer's  gash,  and  the  red  tide 
Still  pouring  from  his  side  ; 

And  round  his  neck  the  mark  of  bloody  hands, 
That  strangled  the  brave  sufferer  while  he  strove 

Against  their  clashing  brands. 
Not  with  unmoistened  eyes  did  the  chief  note 

His  noble  cousin,  precious  to  his  love, 
Brother  of  one  more  precious  to  his  thought, 

With  whom  and  her,  three  happy  hearts  in  one, 
He  grew  together  in  their  joys  and  fears — 
And,  not  till  sundered,  knew  the  taste  of  tears  ; 

Salt,  bitter  tears — but  shed  by  one  alone, 
Him  the  survivor,  the  avenger — he 
Who  vainly  shades  his  eyes  that  still  must  see  ! 
Long  troops  came  after  of  his  slaughter'd  race, 

Each  in  his  habit,  even  as  he  died  : 
The  big  sweat  trickled  down  the  warrior's  face, 
Yet  could  he  move  no  limb  in  that  deep  trance, 
Nor  turn  away  his  glance  ! 

They  melt  again  to  cloud — at  last  they  fade  ; 

He  breathes,  that  sad  spectator,  —  they  are  gone  ; 
He  sighs  with  sweet  relief ;  but  lo !  anon, 


ILENOV^C.  105 

A  deeper  spell  enfolds  him,  as  a  maid, 
Graceful  as  evening  light,  and  with  an  eye 
Intelligent  with  beauty,  like  the  sky, 
And  wooing  as  the  shade, 

Bends  o'er  him  silently  ! 
With  one  sweet  hand  she  lifts  the  streaming  hair, 

That  o'er  her  shoulders  droops  so  gracefully, 
While  with  the  other  she  directs  his  gaze, 
All  desperate  with  amaze, 
Yet  with  a  strange  delight,  thiough  all  his  fear  ! 
What  sees  he  there  ? 
Buried  within  her  bosom  doth  his  eye 
The  deadly  steel  descry  ; 

The  blood  stream  clotted  round  it — the  sweet  life 
Shed  by  the  cruel  knife  ! — 
The  keen  blade  guided  to  the  pure  white  breast, 
By  its  own  kindred  hand,  declares  the  rest ! 
Smiling  upon  the  deed,  she  smiles  on  him, 
And  in  that  smile  the  lovely  shape  grows  dim. 

His  trance  is  gone — his  heart 

Hath  no  more  fear  !    In  one  wild  start 

He  bursts  the  spell  that  bound  him,  with  a  cry 

That  rings  in  the  far  sky  ! 

He  does  not  fear  to  rouse  his  enemy  ! 

The  hollow  rocks  reply. 

He  shouts,  and  wildly,  with  a  desperate  voice, 

As  if  he  did  rejoice 

That  death  hath  done  his  worst ; 
And,  in  his  very  desperation  bless'd, 

He  felt  that  life  could  never  more  be  cursed ; 
And  from  its  gross  remains  he  still  might  wrest 
A  something,  not  a  joy,  but  needful  to  his  breast ! 

His  hope  is  in  the  thought  that  he  shall  gain 

Sweet  vengeance  for  the  slain — 

For  her,  the  sole,  the  one 

More  dear  to  him  than  daylight  or  the  sun, 

That  perished  to  be  pure  !     No  more !  no  more ! 

Hath  that  stern  mourner  language  !     But  the  vow, 


106  THE  EYE  AND  THE  WING. 

Late  breathed  before  those  spectred  witnesses, 

His  secret  spirit  mutters  o'er  and  o'er, 

As  't  were  the  very  life  of  him  and  these, — 

Dear  to  his  memory,  needful  to  him  now! 

A  moment  and  his  right  hand  grasped  the  oar, — 

Then,  bending  to  the  waters,  his  canoe, 

Like  some  etherial  thing  that  mocks  the  view, 

Glides  silent  from  the  shore. 


CLARICE. 


I. 

MAIDENS  there  are,  of  grace  and  light, 
Who,  when  ye  dream  about  the  sky, 

Come,  ever  smiling-,  strangely  bright, 

Botween  the  fancy  and  the  eye  ; 

Ye  feel  them  sweet  to  soul  and  sight, 

And  sadden  as  ye  see  them  fly. 

II. 

And  she  was  one  of  those  that  grew 
The  image  kindred  to  the  theme  ; 

Still  present  to  the  mind  and  view, 
Though  still  as  something  in  a  dream ; 

I  loved  her  beauties  ere  I  knew 

So  well  my  thoughts  did  they  beseem. 

III. 

Not  long  the  heart  an  ideal  thrills, 
Lacks  comfort  from  the  thing  it  woos; 

For  still  the  generous  nature  wills, 
That  he  shall  find  who  well  pursues  ; 

The  glad  soul  which  a  fancy  fills 
Soon  shapes  the  creature  it  must  choose. 


CLARICE.  107 

IV. 

True  to  rny  fancy  thus  she  grew, 

The  living  thing  that  was  my  thought ; 

The  spirit  of  grace,  the  woman  too, 

That  dreams  had  found  for  rne  unsought ; 

If  doubts  declared  the  dream  untrue, 
Her  smile  the  perfect  faith  soon  taught. 

V. 

And  ever  still,  in  hours  of  gloom, 

She  brought  me  glimpses  of  her  skies  ; 

Her  presence  freshen'd  earth  with  bloom, 
And  heaven  lay  star-like  in  her  eyes  ; 

How  should  I  vex  me  with  the  doom, 
Still  wrought  by  evil  destinies? 

VI. 

Ah  !  hers  were  spells  we  may  not  feign, 

Born  at  her  birth  and  fashion'd  so, 
Ye  may  not  teach,  or  falsely  train, 

By  all  th'  experience  taught  below ; 
To  me  they  brought  exceeding  gain, 

But  work'd  her  gentle  spirit  wo ! 

VIT. 

For,  to  the  delicate  hearts  that  take 

Their  nurture  from  another's  eye, 
There's  danger  if  the  breeze  but  shake 

The  lilies  in  the  lake  that  lie  ; 
She  weeps,  lest  love  his  perch  forsake, 

And  dies  with  dread,  lest  npture  die. 

VIII. 

The  smile,  that,  like  a  forest  bird, 

Starts  up  with  sudden  song  to  cheer  j-^— 

The  sadden'd  tone,  that,  sudden  heard, 
Sounds  strange  and  cold  upon  the  ear ; — 

The  hasty  glance,  th'  impatient  word,- 
These  ever  thrilPd  her  with  a  fear. 


10S  THE  EYE  AND  THE  WING. 

IX. 

And  pleasure's  self  was  like  a  pain 
So  keenly  felt  was  every  bliss; 

Even  though  convulsive  throbb'd  the  brain, 
Lest  life  should  bring  no  more  like  this ; 

The  very  love  she  lived  to  gain, 
Brought  death  when  bonded  in  its  kiss. 

X. 

She  perish'd  in  her  innocent  youth, 
As  well  beseems  the  creature  made, 

Like  her,  all  tenderness  and  truth, 

Of  such  pure  light,  of  such  soft  shade, — 

So  full  of  fear,  and  faith,  and  ruth, 
And  born  for  love,  of  love  afraid. 


SUMMER   WEST    WIND 


FROM  what  dear  island  in  the  Indian  seas, 

Com'st  thou,  sweet  spicy  breeze  ;  — 
The  freshness  of  the  morning  on  thy  wing, 

And  all  the  bloom  of  spring1!  — 
Ah  !  ere  thy  flight  was  taken, 

The  rose  and  shrub  were  shaken  ; 
Thou  stol'st  to  many  a  bow'r  of  bloom  and  bliss, 

Giving  and  taking  many  a  balmy  kiss  ! 
Ah  !  happy,  that,  in  flying,  thou  not  leavest 

Aught  that  thou  need'st  or  grievest ; 
Thy  spirit  knows  not  fetters,  though  subdued, 

For  a  long  time,  thy  mood  ; — 
Yet,  let  the  west  implore  thee, 

The  sweet  south  smile  before  thee, 


SUMMER  WEST  WIND.  109 

The  murmur  of  their  fountains  meet  thine  ear 

And  thou,  anon,  art  there  ! 
The  lone  one  will  forget  her  loneliness, 

As  thou  uplift'st  her  tress, 
Kissing,  with  none  to  check, 

The  whitest  neck, — 
She  blushing*,  with  fond  fancies,  that  repine 

For  other  lips  than  thine, — 
Ah  !  why  not  mine  ! 

II 

Methinks  from  thy  sweet  breath  and  tender  motion, 

Thy  last  flight  was  from  caves  in  southern  ocean, 
Spar-gem'd  and  lustrous  ; — there,  thy  form  has  crept 

To  the  pale  Nereid  as  she  sighing  slept ! 
Ah,  wanton  ! — thou  hast  toy'd  with  tangled  hair, 

And  bent  o'er  beauties  rare  ; 
SeaPd  up  bright  eyes  with  kisses,  that,  anon, 

When  sleep  and  thou  wert  gone, 
Wept  at  the  hapless  waking  which  destroy'd 

The  sweetest  world  of  void  ! — 
Thou  might'st  have  linger'd  in  thy  watch  secure,— 

Thy  kisses,  though  they  waken'd  her,  were  pure  ; 
Nay,  on  her  lips,  thou  might'st  impress  the  seal, 

Her  cheeks  still  blush  to  feel ; 
Her  sea-shell,  meanwhile,  suiting  with  sweet  notes, 

'Till  slowly,  through  its  purple  winding  floats 
Love's  fondest  plaint, — 

The  saddest,  dear'st  effusion  of  her  saint ; 
Touch'd  to  the  soul  with  such  a  tenderness, 

She  may  no  more  express, — 
Her  only  grief,  her  joy  in  such  excess, 

No  words  may  well  declare,  no  music  paint ! 

III. 

Can'st  thou  desert  her,  vain  one  ! — wilt  thou  fly, 
With  sunset,  when  the  purple  billow  glows, 

As  with  new  passion,  'neath  the  western  sky  1 — 
Thy  flight  hath  borne  with  it  her  dear  repose ; — 
10 


110  THE  EYE  AND  THE  WING. 

That  music,  as  it  goes, 
Robs  her  of  life,  with  love  ; — unless  it  be 

She  still  can  fly  with  thee  ;— 
Borne  far  with  dying  day, 

A  faint  but  fairy  lay, — 
That  moves  her, — following,  through  the  fields  of  air,- 

Thee  seeking,  false  one,  seeking  every  where  ! 

IV. 

Even  in  his  fiercest  hour, 

Thou  mock'st  the  great  sun's  power, 

Thy  broad  wing  o'er  the  quiv'ring  plain  below, 

Shield'st  fondly  from  his  glow, 

And  cherishest  and  cheer'st  the  drooping  flower. 
Lo  !  smiling,  the  green  trees  that  forward  bend 

With  thy  fast  flight  to  blend  ; 
Lo  !  the  cooled  waves  that,  dimpling  ocean's  isles, 

Implore  thee  with  a  thousand  frantic  wiles, 
Flinging  their  shells  along  the  yellow  beach, 

That  thou  may'st  teach, 
With  lingering  whisper,  as  thou  dartest  by, 

To  every  twisted  core,  its  melody. 

V. 

Swart  labor  greets  thee  from  his  fields  with  pray'r, 

And  bows  with  dripping  hair, 
Vest  open  wide,  and  blue  eye  that  declares 

A  gladness  born  of  cares. — 
Mother  of  meekness,  child  of  happy  birth, 

Sprung  from  the  sky,  yet  born  alone  for  earth, — 
Glows  his  broad  bosom  as  he  sees  thy  wing, 

Slow  spreading,  and  with  silence  hovering, 
A  purple  cloud  descending, 
Above  his  green  fields  bending, 
And  blessing  ! — Thou  hast  cheer'd  him  with  thy  breath, 

When  all  was  still  as  death  ; 
Leaves  quiv'ring  in  the  close  and  stifling  air ; 

A  languor  like  despair, 
Stretched  o'er  the  earth,  and  through  the  coppery  sky 


SUMMER  WEST  WIND.  Ill 

That  burns  the  upholding  eye  ; — 
Streams  fled  from  ancient  channels,  and  the  blade 

Blasted,  as  soon  as  made — 
And  the  sad  drooping  of  all  things  that  sigh, 

With  the  dread  fear  to  die  ! 

VI. 

Ah  !  still  above  our  green  plains  brood,  and  bring 

Life  to  their  languishing ! 
Sweet  breath,  and  dear  protection  !  go  not  soon, 

Though,  with  the  rising  moon, 
The  mermaid  woos  thee  to  her  silvery  isle, 

And  songs  from  green-haired  ocean-maids  beguile, 
No  longer  dumb  with  rapture,  waiting  thee. 

We  may  not  set  thee  free, — 
Let  prayer  secure  thee  for  a  season,  'till, 

Prayer  true  as  ours  gives  freedom  to  thy  will ! 
Then  linger  not  too  long,  nor  all  forget 

How  fondly,  when  we  met, 
Our  arms  were  spread  to  greet  thee, — and  each  breast, 

Warm,  opening  for  its  guest. 
Come  to  us  waking — sleeping ;  do  not  fear 

To  waken,  with  thy  music  in  each  ear, 
Music  of  flow'rs  and  of  the  gentle  waves 

That  break  in  moonlight  caves, — 
Music  of  youth  and  hope,  which,  if  it  know, 

A  touch  of  tears  or  wo, 
Is  yet  a  wo  of  tenderness  that  brings, 

Gleams  still  of  sweetest  things  ; — 
And,  if  it  tell  of  night, 

Tells  of  it  only  when  its  stars  are  bright, 
And  in  the  silvery,  soft  and  tremulous  air, 

The  moon  and  thou  art  both  commercing  there 


112  THE  EYE  AND  THE  WING. 


THE   KINGS    IN   SHEOL. 


PARAPHRASE.— ISAIAH  xiv, 


HARK  !  the  nations  take  a  song 

Of  deliverance  from  the  strong  ; — 

Still  they  cry  on  every  hand, 

There  is  freedom  for  the  land  ; 

For  the  oppressor  's  overthrown, 

And  the  golden  city's  down  ! — 

He  who  smote  the  world  in  wrath, 

Now  lies  silent  in  his  path  ; 

None  so  feeble,  but  may  stride, 

O'er  the  brow  they  deified  ; — 

God,  in  vengeance,  hath  arisen  ; 

He  hath  broke  the  captive's  prison ; 

In  his  smile  a  freedom  bringing, 

Which  hath  set  the  whole  world  singing ; 

All  exulting  o'er  the  ruin 

Which  declares  the  dread  undoing, 

Of  the  awful  power  that  made 

Earth  grow  barren  in  its  shade  ! — 

The  pines,  that  trembled  at  his  tread, — 

The  cedars,  doom'd  to  bow  the  head, 

Beneath  his  lordly  axe,  that  won, 

The  grayest  brows  of  Lebanon, — 

Now  shout  triumphant  in  the  blow 

That  shields  them  hence  from  overthrow  ; — 

How  stands  above  his  open  grave, 

With  words  of  scorn,  his  meanest  slave ! 

To  his  gloomy  ghost,  they  cry, 

As  it  shrouds  it  from  the  sky, — 


THE  KINGS  IN  SHEOL.  113 

Sinking,  under  doom  of  wo, 
To  the  awful  realm  below. 

Thou,  that  lately  stood  elate, 
Hence  !  to  meet  a  loathlier  state, — 
Hell,  to  hail  thee,  stirs  her  dead !  — 
Rising,  as  they  hear  thy  tread, 
Lo !  the  great  ones  of  the  earth, 
Hail  thee  with  a  mocking  mirth  ; 
From  their  thrones  of  ancient  might, 
Rise,  to  welcome  thee  to  night 
Those,  with  common  voice,  they  speak, 
Art  become  like  us,  and  weak  ; — 
Pomp  and  music  could  not  save, 
All  thy  pride  is  in  the  grave  ; 
'Neath  thee  winds  the  worm, — above, 
Crawls,  and  clings,  with  loathsome  love  I 
How  art  thou  fall'n  !  that  like  the  star, 
The  son  of  morning,  shone  afar, 
Flung,  midst  the  glory  of  thy  light, 
In  darkness  from  thy  mountain  height ; 
Even  at  the  moment  when  thy  aim, 
Had  been  the  cope  of  heaven  to  claim, — 
Above  the  stars  of  God  to  rise, 
And  sway  the  assembly  of  the  skies  ! 
Lo  !  where  thou  sink'st,  with  mortal  dread,. 
While  Sheol  closes  o'er  thy  head  ; — 
Grasping  her  sides  with  feeble  will, 
Yet  sinking  downward,  downward  still ; 
How — could  they  see  thee  from  above,— 
The  eyes  that  never  watch'd  in  love, — 
How  would  they  cry — can  this  be  he, 
That  made  the  crowded  nations  flee, 
Did,  in  his  wrath,  the  kingdom's  shake, 
And  make  earth's  far  foundations  quake  ! 


10* 


114  THE  EYE  AND  THE  WING. 


MONNA, 


There  was  an  eye,  a  steadfast  eye, 

That  once  I  loved  : — I  love  it  now  : — 
And  still  it  gazes  on  my  brow, 

Unchanged  through  all, — unchangingly. 

II. 

It  could  not  change,  though  it  has  gone  ;— 
For  'twas  a  thing  of  soul ; — and  so, 
It  did  not  with  the  mortal  go, 

To  that  one  chamber,  still  and  lone. 

III. 

It  had  a  touch,  a  winning  touch, 
Of  twilight  sadness  in  its  glance  ; 
And  look'd,  at  times,  as  in  a  trance* 

Till  I  grew  sad,  I  loved  so  much. 

IV. 

For  life  is  selfish,  and  the  tear, 
In  one  we  love  is  like  a  gloom  ; 
And  still  I  wept  the  stubborn  doom 

That  made  a  thing  of  grief  so  dear. 

V. 

Through  sunny  hours  and  cloudy  hours, 
And  hours  that  had  nor  sun  nor  cloud, 
That  eye  was  rapt,  as  in  a  shroud, 

Such  shroud  as  autumn  flings  o'er  flowers, 


MONNA,  115 

VI. 

It  had  a  language  dear  to  me., 

Though  strange  to  all  the  world  beside  ; 
And  many  a  grief  I  strove  to  chide* 

Grew  sweet  to  mine  idolatry. 

VII. 

I  could  not  stay  the  grief,  nor  chase 

The  cloud  that  gloom'd  the  earnest  eye  ; 
But  gave, — 'twas  all, — my  sympathy, 

And  wo  was  written  on  my  face. 

VIII. 

'Twas  on  my  face,  as  in  my  heart ; 

And  when  the  Lady  Monna  died, 

When  still  I  loved, — I  never  sigh'd, 
But  tearless  saw  the  lights  depart. 

IX. 

They  bore  her  coldly  to  the  tomb  ; 

They  took  me  to  my  home  away; 

Nor  knew  that  from  that  vacant  day, 
My  home  was  with  her  in  the  gloom. 

X. 

They  little  knew  how,  still  we  went, 
Together,  in  the  midnight  shade, 
Communing  with  wet  eyes,  that  made. 

Our  very  passions  innocent. 

XI. 

Born  of  the  cloud,  her  mournful  eye, 

Was  on  me  still,  as  shines  the  star, 

That,  drooping  from  its  heights  afar» 
Broods  ever  on  eternity. 


116  THE  EYE  AND  THE  WING. 

XII. 

It  led  me  aye  through  folds  of  shade, 
By  day  and  darkness,  still  the  same, 
And  heedless  of  all  mortal  blame, 

I  follow'd  meekly  where  it  bade. 

XIII. 

They  watch'd  my  steps,  and  scann'd  my  face, 
And  vex'd  my  heart  til]  I  grew  stern  ; — 
For  curious  eyes  have  yet  to  learn, 

How  sorrow  dreads  each  finger  trace. 

XIV. 

Mine  was  too  deep  a  love  to  be, 

The  common  theme  for  idle  tongue, 
And  when  they  spoke  of  her,  they  wrung 

My  spirit  into  agony. 

XV. 

I  live  a  lone  and  settled  wo ; — 
I  care  not  if  the  day  be  fair 
Or  foul, — I  would  that  I  were  near. 

The  maid  they  buried  long  ago. 


UK-LIGHT.  117 


UR-LIGHT. 


ERE,  at  first,  the  seals  were  broken, 

And  the  motive  word  had  spoken, 

Earth  was  but  an  idiot  wonder, 

Born  in  cloud  and  clad  in  thunder ; 

Blindly  striving,  vainly  roaring, 

Wildly  plunging,  feebly  soaring, 

Whirling  with  a  fretful  motion 

Like  a  ship  in  peevish  ocean  ; — 

Graceless  all,  in  grove  and  fountain, 

Shapeless  all,  in  vale  and  mountain  ; — 

Hopeless,  heartless,  songless,  sightless, 

Cold  and  dismal,  soulless,  sprightless ; — 

Little  dreaming  then  of  glory, 

Which  should  make  so  sweet  a  story, 

Music-weaving,  music-winning, 

Closing  sweet  for  sweet  beginning  ; 

Borne  across  the  tract  of  ages, 

Still  in  sweet  successive  stages, — 

In  their  daily  inarch  untying, 

Sounds  forever  thence  undying;  — 

In  their  daily  music,  freeing, 

Souls,  forever  thence  in  being  ; — 

Beauty  still,  for  song  revealing, 

Love,  that  finds  for  beauty,  feeling, — 

Hope  that  knows  what  truth  shall  follow, — 

Truth  that  hope  alone  shall  hallow  ! 

But  a  word  must  first  be  spoken, 

Ere  the  heavy  seals  are  broken  ; 

And  bright  clouds  of  spirits,  chosen, — 

Watchful,  never  once  reposing, 

Hang  amid  the  void,  upgazing, 

Where  the  great  world's  soul  is  blazing. 


118  THE  EYE  AND  THE  WING. 

Hark,  a  voice  is  heard,  as  calling, 
And  a  star  is  seen,  as  falling, 
Star  of  soul,  whose  spell  symphonious, 
Makes  stars,  systems,  suns,  harmonious 
Oh  !  that  blessed  sound,  that  thrilling 
Earth  and  matter,  make  them  willing ! 
Hark  !  the  angels  join,  rejoicing 
As  they  hear  that  highest  voicing  ; 
Stills  the  ocean,  wildly  rushing, 
As  their  melody  is  gushing  ; — 
Lo  !  the  volcan  stays  his  thunder, 
And  his  red  eyes  ope  in  wonder !  — 
Earth,  no  longer  blind,  rejoices, 
Clapping  hands  and  lifting  voices  ; 
While  the  eastern  sky  is  streaking, — 
Hues  of  white,  like  lightning  breaking, 
Lighten  ocean  up  with  splendor, 
Make  the  rugged  mountains  tender, 
As  still  crowding  into  cluster, 
They  implore  the  growing  lustre. 
Tree  and  flow'ret,  vale  and  mountain, 
Plain  and  forest,  lake  and  fountain, 
Grove  and  prairie,  rock  and  river, 
Give  their  glories  to  the  giver  ; — 
Win  their  voices  with  their  seeing, 
Find,  in  light,  their  fount  of  being  ; 
And  at  eve,  its  smile  imploring, 
Still,  with  dawn,  begin  adoring ; — 
Ah  !  by  light  eternal  bidden, 
Light  shall  never  more  be  hidden- 


THE  LONELY  ISLET.  119 


THE   LONELY   ISLET. 


LIFT  the  oar,  as  silently, 

By  yon  sacred  isle  we  pass  ; 
Know  we  not  if  still  she  sleeps, 
Where  the  wind  such  whisper  keeps, 

In  yon  waving  grass  ! 
Death's  a  mocker  to  delight, 

That  we  know, — and  yet, — 
There  was  that  in  every  breath 

Of  her  motion — in  the  set 

Of  her  features,  fair  and  whole — 
In  the  flashing  of  her  eye, 
Spirit  joyous  still,  and  high, 

Speaking  the  immortal  soul, 
In  a  language  warm  and  bright — 

That  should  mock  at  death  ! 

II. 

Silently  ! — still  silently  ! 
Oh  !  methinks,  if  it  were  true, 
If,  indeed,  she  sleeps — 
Wakeful  never,  though  the  oar, 

Of  the  well-beloved  one,  nigh, 
Break  the  water  as  before  ; — 

When,  with  but  the  sea  in  view, 
And  the  sky-waste,  and  the  shore, 

Or  some  star  that,  sinking,  creeps, 
Between  whiles  of  speech,  to  show, 
How  sweet  lover's  tears  may  flow,^- 
They  together  went,  forgetting, 
How  the  moon  was  near  her  setting, 
Down  amid  the  waters  low  ; — 


120  THE  EYE  AND  THE  WING. 

III. 

Then  no  more  should  lovely  things, 
Moon,  or  star,  or  zephyr,  stoop, — 
But  a  cloud  with  dusky  wings, 

Gloom  outgiving,  still  should  droop, 

O'er  that  islet  lone  : — 
And  the  long  grass  by  the  breeze 
Sullen  rising  from  the  seas, 

Should  make  constant  moan ! 
Silent ! — Hark  ! — that  dipping  oar, — 
Oh  !  rnethinks,  it  roused  a  tone 
As  of  one  upon  the  shore  ! — 
'Twas  the  wind  that  swept  the  grass  !- 

Silently,  O  !  silently,— 
As  the  sacred  spot  we  pass  ! 


SYBILLA. 


IN  ILLUSTRATION  OF  A  PICTURE. 


HER  brow  is  raised,  her  eye  in  air, — 
The  spirit  burns  and  triumphs  there  ! — 
Mark  the  sacred  strength  that  dwells 
Where  that  pure  white  forehead  swells  ; 
Lo  !  the  sacred  fire  that  streams 
From  that  deep  eye's  sudden  gleams, 
As  a  shaft  of  lightning  driven, 
Through  the  cloud-veil'd  deeps  of  heaven  ! 

What  the  passion  in  that  soul, 
Thus  that  bursts  and  scorns  control  ! 


SYBILLA. 

Can  it  be  the  lowly  birth, — 
Passion,  which  has  root  in  earth — 
Which  imy  govern  thus,  and  move, 
Soul  so  high  with  mortal  love  1 — 
Noi  the  feeling  in  that  eye. 
Finds  its  birth-place  in  the  sky. 

She  hath  thrown  aside  the  pen, 
Which  she  straight  resumes  agen  : — 
Coursing  o'er  the  spotless  leaf, 
Lo  !  her  heart  hath  told  its  grief : 
What  a  sorrow  in  that  tone, — 
What  a  passion  in  that  moan, 
And  the  big  tear,  in  her  eye, 
How  it  speaks  the  destiny. 

Read  the  letters ; — speak  them  ; — lo  ' 
What  a  story  writ,  of  wo; 
Wo  is  me,  that  heart  like  thine, 
Kindling  thus,  and  pure,  should  pine  ; 
Wo  is  me,  that  in  thy  morn, 
Thou  should'st  blossom  thus  forlorn  ; 
Yet  the  doom  is  said  in  sooth, 
Thou  shalt  perish  in  thy  youth  : — 

Lose  the  promise  at  thy  birth ; 
Lose  the  pleasant  green  of  earth ; 
Lose  the  waters,  hse  the  light, 
Sweet  from  sense  and  fair  from  sight; 
Ere  the  breaking  of  thy  heart, 
From  each  dear  affection  part, 
Die  in  spirit,  ere  the  doom 
Drags  the  mortal  to  the  tomb  ! — 

Thus  the  fearful  prophecy 
Glares  before  thy  kindling  eye  ; 
Thy  own  fingers  pen  the  word, 
Which  thy  coal-touch'd  ear  hath  heard  ; 
Thou  art  doom'd  to  witness  all, 
Thou  hast  loved  and  cherish'd,  fall, — 
11 


121 


122  THE  EYE  AND  THE  WING. 

Fall, — the  deadliest  form  of  death — 
From  the  friendship,  from  the  faith  1 

This  is  worst — for  death  is  nought 
To  the  high  and  hopeful  thought ; 
'Tis  a  deeper  pang  that  rends, 
In  the  parting  of  firm  friends  ; 
In  the  wrenching  of  that  tie, 
Which  links  souls  of  sympathy  ; 
In  the  hour  that  finds  us  lone, 
Making  o'er  the  false,  our  moan. 

Death  she  fears  not ; — but  to  part, 
With  each  young  dream  of  the  heart ; 
That  first  hope  that  brought  the  rest, 
All  its  sweet  brood,  to  the  breast ; 
Where,  a  virgin  in  her  cares, 
Love,  a  mother  grew  to  snares, 
Which,  with  harboured  vipers,  strove. 
At  the  last,  to  strangle  Love  ! — 

Yet  her  sacred  soul  is  strong  ; 
She  maintains  the  struggle  long ; 
In  her  cheek  the  pale  is  bright, 
And  the  tear-drop  hath  its  light ; 
On  the  lip  the  moan  that's  heard 
Is  the  singing  of  a  bird, 
Striving  for  the  distant  quire  ; — 
And  her  fingers  clasp  the  lyre. 

She  is  dying, — dying  fast, 
But  in  music  to  the  last ; — 
Oh  !  sad  swan,  thy  parting  lay 
Is  the  sweetest  of  thy  day  ; 
And  it  hath  a  winged  might 
Bearing  up  the  soul  in  flight, 
Still  ascending,  seeking  place, 
'Mong  the  angels,  for  a  grace. 


THE  BURDEN  OF  THE  DESERT.  123 


THE  BURDEN  OF  THE  DESERT. 


A  PARAPHRASE.— ISAIAH  xxi. 


I. 

THE  burden  of  the  Desert, 

The  Desert  like  the  deep, 
That  from  the  south  in  whirlwinds, 

Comes  rushing  up  the  steep  ; — 
I  see  the  spoiler  spoiling, 

I  hear  the  strife  of  blows ; 
Up,  watchman,  to  thy  heights,  and  say 

How  the  dread  conflict  goes  ! 

IL 

What  hear'st  thou  from  the  desert  ] — 

"A  sound,  as  if  a  world, 
Were  from  its  axle  lifted  up, 

And  to  an  ocean  hurl'd  ; 
The  roaring  as  of  waters, 

The  rushing  as  of  hills, 
And  lo  !  the  tempest- smoke  and  cloud, 

That  all  the  desert  fills." 

III. 

What  see'st  thou  on  the  desert  1 — 
"A  chariot  comes,"  he  cried, 

"With  camels  and  with  horsemen, 
That  travel  by  its  side  ; 


124  THE  EYE  AND  THE  WING. 

And  now  a  lion  darteth, 
From  out  the  cloud,  and  he, 

Looks  backward  ever  as  he  flies, 
As  fearing  still  to  see  !" 

IV. 

What,  watchman,  of  the  horsemen? — 

"  They  come,  and  as  they  ride, 
Their  horses  crouch  and  tremble, 

Nor  toss  their  manes  in  pride  ; 
The  camels  wander  scatter'd, 

The  horsemen  heed  them  nought, 
But  speed,  as  if  they  dreaded  still, 

The  foe  with  whom  they  fought." 

V. 

"  What  foe  is  this,  thou  watchman  ?" — 

"Hark!  Hark!  the  horsemen  come  ; 
Still  looking  on  the  backward  path, 

As  if  they  fear'd  a  doom  ; 
Their  locks  are  white  with  terror, 

Their  very  shout's  a  groan  ; 
'  Babylon,'  they  cry,  '  has  fallen, 

And  all  her  Gods  are  gone  !'  " 


"WHERE  BY  DARRO'S  EVENING  WATERS."  125-v 


WHERE  BY  DARRO'S  EVENING  WATERS.' 


I. 

WHERE  by  Darro's  evening  waters, 
Hang  the  weeping  willows  low, 

There  they  sat,  the  twilight's  daughters, 
Ever  beautiful  with  wo  : — 

Murmuring  songs  of  fitful  sorrow  ; — 
Sorrow  mingled  with  such  sweetness, 
That  it  would  not  know  completeness, 

But  for  softening  tears  that  borrow, 
From  the  yielding  heart  compliance  ; — 
And  such  touching,  fond  reliance 

On  the  rapture  of  the  morrow, — 

That  the  hearer  weeps  for  pleasure, 
As  the  music  o'er  him  creeps, 

And  he  finds  increasing  measure, 
In  his  pleasure,  that  he  weeps  ! 

II. 

Sleeps  he  then  beside  the  waters, 

By  that  twilight  song  oppress'd  ; 
Softly  gliding,  then,  the  daughters 

Steal  beside  his  rest; — 
Three  young  maids  of  touching  sweetness, 

Born  of  dew,  and  light,  and  air, 
Mourning  still  the  life  of  fleetness, 

That  belongs  to  birth  so  rare  ! — 
Yet,  so  human  still  their  'plaining, 

In  his  heart  strange  pangs  arise, 
And  a  new  life  they  aro  gaining, 

From  the  drops  that  fill  his  eyes. 
Reason  good  for  sorrow's  power, 
In  that  sad  and  dreaming  hour — 
11* 


126  THE  EYE  AND  THE  WING, 

Far  beyond  their  hapless  plight, 
Is  his  own  and  kindred  birth ; — 

Born  of  air,  and  dew,  and  light, 
He  is  also  born  of  earth  ! 


SOUL-FLIGHT. 


;  Ah  !  whither  strays  the  immortal  mind."— BTR»H. 


I. 

WHAT  checks  the  Eagle's  wing — what  dims  his  eye, 

Turned  upward  to  the  sky  ? 

Doth  the  cloud  cumber  the  ascending  flight, 

Of  that  which  is  all  light  ? 

Fruitless,  indeed,  were  such  a  frail  defence 

Against  intelligence  ; 

And  all  in  vain  the  chains  of  earth  would  bind 

The  disembodied  mind  ! 

II. 

Glorious  and  unrestrained  on  its  way, 

It  seeks  the  endless  day  ; 

It  drinks  more  deeply  of  the  intenser  air, 

That  streams  with  being  there  ; 

A  thing  of  sense  and  sight,  it  early  learns, 

And  sees,  adores,  and  burns ; 

Claiming,  with  every  breath  from  out  the  sky, 

Its  own  divinity. 


SOUL-FLIGHT.  127 

III. 

From  world  to  world,  from  gathering  star  to  star, 

Its  flight  is  fast  and  far  ; 

As  through  an  ordeal,  it  prepares  in  each 

Some  higher  form  to  reach  ; 

From  the  small  orb  that  lights  the  outer  gate 

Of  that  all-nameless  state, 

To  that  which  burns  before  the  eternal  throne, 

Fearless,  it  hurries  on. 

IV. 

Dread  mystery,  that,  to  the  mortal  sight 

Seems  all  one  shapeless  night, — 

Wild  with  unbidden  clouds,  that  flickering  haste 

Still  o'er  a  pathless  waste, 

Without  one  intellectual  planet's  ray, 

To  yield  a  partial  day  ; — 

Will  death  reveal  the  truth  to  sons  of  men  1 — 

Shall  we  explore  you  then  1 

V. 

I  would  not  be  the  creature  of  the  clay, 

Mouldering  with  time  away, 

Nor  hold,  for  my  soul's  hope,  the  awful  thought, 

That  death  is  all,  life  nought  !— 

That  all  this  soaring  mind,  this  high  desire 

Still,  upward,  to  aspire, 

Is  but  the  yearning  of  some  painted  thing, 

That  would  not  lose  its  wing. 


128  THE  EYE  AND  THE  WING. 


THE   CHILD-ANGEL. 


IT  is  our  blessing  that  her  lot  was  fair — 
The  precious  birth-right  of  the  dew  and  air, 
The  green  and  shade  of  woods,  the  song  of  birds, 

And  dreams  too  bright  for  words — 
All  that  makes  moonlight  for  the  innocent  heart, 
And  love,  that  in  its  bud,  is  still  its  crowning  part. 

The  sadness  of  the  spring-time  in  the  shade 
Of  dusk — the  shadows  of  the  night  array'd, 
By  stars  in  the  great  forests,  as  they  look, 

Glistening,  as  from  a  brook  ; 
And  stillness,  in  the  gloom,  that  seems  a  sound, 
Breathed  up,  unconscious,  out,  from  nature's  great  profound  ; — 

Fancies,  that  go  beside  us  when  we  glide. 
Still  seeking  no  companion  —  prompt  to  guide, 
Even  where  we  would  not,  to  the  saddest  grove, 

Where  one  still  weeps  for  love, — 
Still  nursing  ever  a  most  sweet  distress, 
That,  through  our  very  sorrow  seems  to  bless  ; — 

These,  since  the  child's  departure,  still  declare, 
Her  precious  birth-right  in  the  dew  and  air — 
And  I,  that  do  inherit  them  from  her, 

Do  feel  them  minister, 
As  with  new  voices  never  felt  before, 
To  love  that,  in  my  heart,  still  groweth  more  and  more. 


NIAGARA.  129 


NIAGARA. 


A  YEARNING  for  the  holier  things  ! — 

The  spirit  vainly  tries, 
To  reassume  its  morning  wings 

And  seek  its  native  skies  ; — 
The  solemn  dark  to  penetrate, 
To  grasp  the  magnet-realm  of  fate, 

And  through  the  cloud  to  rise  ; — 
Shake  off  the  lowly  world's  control, 
Assume,  assert,  and  feel  the  soul, 

Triumphant  in  its  prize, — 
The  treasure,  free  from  stain  of  earth, 
That  proud  dominion  lost  at  birth  ! 

II. 

And  thus  we  love  the  pathless  shore, 

By  ocean's  waste  of  flood  ; 
Arid  listen  to  his  solemn  roar, 

With  sad  and  thoughtful  mood  ; 
And  o'er  the  rocks,  and  by  the  caves, 
Where  winds  make  sounds  like  rolling  waves, 

And  on  the  mountains,  brood  ; 
As  if  some  sudden  voice  might  swell, 
From  billowy  deep  or  bosky  dell, 

To  soothe  the  anxious  blood  ; 
To  quell  the  doubt  and  glad  the  sense, 
With  beams  of  bright  intelligence. 

III. 

There,  'mid  the  awful  strife,  alone  !  — 
A  mighty  voice  I  hear  ; 


130  THE  EYE  AND  THE  WING. 

An  unknown  sound  of  thrilling  tone, 
That  strikes  ray  heart  with  fear ; 

But  frees  me  from  the  lowlier  press, 

Of  human  feelings  numberless, 
And  every  human  care  : 

My  spirit  takes  the  eagle's  wing, 

Among  the  rolling  clouds  I  spring, 
And  all  their  hues  I  share  ; — 

Visions  of  glory  crowd  my  sight, 

And  woo  me  to  an  equal  flight ! 

IV. 

These  bring  me  loftiest  fancies  now  ; 

I  lift  my  heart  and  head  ; 
God's  burning  eye  is  on  my  brow, 

His  bow  is  o'er  me  spread  ; — 
I  tremble  at  no  human  shrine, 
No  idol  form  takes  prayer  of  mine  ; — 

The  signs  around  me  shed, 
Glow  with  the  God  who  sets  me  free ; — 
These  are  his  mighty  altars  ! — see, 

His  trophies  bright  and  dread ; 
Columns  and  rocks,  that,  trembling,  stand — 
And  oceans  tumbling  from  his  hand  ! 

V. 

I  follow  where  his  voice  may  guide, 

An  accent  of  the  sea, 
When  angry  storms  go  forth  in  pride, 

And  marshall'd  navies  flee  ; — 
I  hear  him  in  that  thunder-tone, 
Whose  echoes  make  the  mountains  groan, 

As  toiling  to  be  free ; — 
Dread  glimpses  meet  me  through  the  spray, 
That  ramps  like  lion,  rash  for  prey, 

Beneath  his  forest  tree  ! — 
The  God  is  in  that  fearful  view ; 
I  trace  him  in  yon  rainbow  too  ! 


NIAGARA.  131 

VI. 


Upon  the  awful  verge  I  stand, — 

I  crouch,  but  look  not  down  ; 
Quick  beats  my  heart,  as  if  'twere  bann'd, 

Beneath  a  master's  frown  :  — 
The  cries  assail  me  from  below, 
A  chorus  of  eternal  wo, 

A  hell-extorted  groan ! 
Down  pours  the  flood,  unceasing  still, 
While  all  the  solid  mountains  thrill, 

With  terrors  not  their  own  ! — 
The  abyss  yells  out  in  wild  despair, — 
God  !  thou  hast  chained  thy  rebels  there  ? 

VII. 

A  wonder,  mix'd  with  diead,  informs 

The  spirit  of  my  dream  j 
As,  circled  by  this  realm  of  storms, 

I  shrink  to  hear  their  scream  ; 
Yet,  as  I  watch  that  awful  show, 
Shines  out  the  many-blushing  bow, 

Beneath  the  morning  gleam  ; — 
Oh  !  sign  of  promise  still, — that  stands 
The  woven  of  eternal  hands  ; — 

How  should  we  love  thy  beam, 
That  clasping  mountain,  ocean,  air, 
Soothes  even  the  awful  sorrows  there  J 


132  THE  EYE  AND  THE  WING. 

«# 

TWINS    IN    DEATH. 


SHALL  the  true  faith,  soaring  high, 
Dreaming  still  about  the  sky, 
Weep  the  loved  ones  who  have  sought, 
What  hath  ever  been  our  thought  I— 
Better,  with  a  word  of  cheer, 
Send  our  thoughts  to  follow,  where, 
Thought  's  no  more  a  thing  of  care  !  — 

Go,  ye  young  twin-hearted, 
Whom  not  even  death  has  parted, 

So  well  ye  clung  together  ; — 
Ye  are  free  the  long  campaign, 
Marches  in  the  cold  and  rain, 

Hard  fight,  and  bitter  weather. 
Ye  shall  know  no  more  of  trembling, 
Weep  no  more  at  man's  dissembling, 

Nor  at  griefs  more  dread, 
In  the  cruel  sad  defeat 
Of  the  hope,  of  ail  most  sweet, 

On  which  our  hearts  have  fed  ; — 
Fed — fed  !  as  in  the  solitude 
The  Hebrew  did  upon  celestial  food  ! 

Sweet  your  future  slumbers,  where, 
The  young  flow'rs,  though  soft  and  fair, 
Hide  no  reptile,  nurse  no  care, — 

Where  no  shaft  your  hearts  may  sever 
Sweetest  fate  was  yours, — to  mingle, 

Souls  that  would  unite  forever, 
Dreading  ever  to  be  single  ! — 
God  has  bless'd  your  deep  repose, 

And  the  union  so  divine, 
Hath  a  perfume  like  the  rose, 
That  upon  some  mountain  grow?, 
Where  the  clouds  ascend  not, 


INFANCY  OF  AMBITION.  133 

Which  the  tempests  rend  not, 

Where  stars  of  night  and  day,  still  twinn'd,  together  shine. 

Life  can  wing  no  after  blow, 
Ye  are  safe  from  mortal  wo ; 
Ye  have  wings  to  fly  the  cloud, 
Souls  to  fling  aside  the  shroud  ; 
Dreading  never  more  the  morrow, 
With  its  brow  of  frown  and  sorrow  ; 
Free  from  cruel  time's  oppressing, 
Death  himself  but  brings  ye  blessing. 
Death  who  soothes  even  when  he  blights — 

Where  is  he  stern-hearted? — 
Not  when  thus  his  hand  unites 

What  never  life  had  parted  ! 
Ye  have  ceased  your  ailing, 
There  should  be  no  wailing ! 


INFANCY   OF   AMBITION 


I. 

'Tis  thy  first  vision  of  glory  ; — 
Lo  !  he  is  sleeping  beside  thee  ; 
Sweet  is  the  boy  in  his  slumber ; 
Slumber  more  beautiful,  never 
Curtain'd  the  lips  of  an  infant, 
Hung  on  his  mouth  like  a  zephyr, 
Or  from  his  lips  drew  a  laughter, 
Such  as  an  angel  might  share  in ! — 
Dark  are  his  violet  eyelids, 
Soft  with  a  tear  dewy-glistening  ; 
Red  on  his  cheeks  are  the  blossoms 
Of  youth  and  ineffable  beauty  ; 
And  o'er  his  brow,  how  transcendant, 
12 


134  THE  EFE  AND  THE  WING. 

Bright  with  all  colors  and  glowing- 
Lovely  as  summer's  first  rainbow, 
Circles  the  halo  of  heaven. 

II. 

Madden  not,  gazing  upon  him, — 
Thus  he  but  sleeps  to  beguile  thee  ; — 
Stoop  not  to  kiss  from  his  eyelid 
Those  pearly  droplets  that  glisten 
Gemlike,  as  tributes  from  ocean, 
Cast  on  the  grey  sand  and  shining 
Bright  in  the  last  glance  of  evening. — 
Little  thou  dream'st  of  thy  peril ; — 
Lo  !  where,  conceal'd  by  the  roses, 
Grasp'd  in  his  hand  and  now  quivering, 
As  eager  to  fly  on  its  mission, 
The  subtle  red  shaft  of  the  lightning ! — 
Look,  where  his  head  finds  its  pillow, 
Bolt  upon  bolt,  that  flash  softly, 
Tinging  with  faintest  suffusion, 
The  tresses  of  gold  that  half  hide  them. 

III. 

This  is  no  child  but  an  eagle, 
Ready  for  flight  with  his  burden, 
Changing  his  aspect  as  quickly, 
And  reckless  and  stern  as  the  Afrite, 
Who,  scaping  from  Solomon's  signet, 
Rose  from  his  urn  to  a  giant, 
Stretching  from  ocean  to  heaven. 
Waken  him  not  in  thy  madness  ; — 
Sore  is  the  grief  he  will  bring  thee  ; 
Hard  is  the  task  he  will  set  thee  ; 
Soon,  with  the  daylight  beginning, 
Late,  with  the  midnight  unending ; 
Toils  that  will  make  thee  to  weary, 
Sinking  to  die  by  the  wayside, 
With  an  eye  and  a  hand  ever  stretching 
To  the  lone  unattainable  summits. 


BALLAD.  135 


BALLAD. 


I. 

HER  eye  is  dim  with  many  tears, 
Her  heart  is  cold  with  many  fears, 
And,  in  her  cheek,  and  on  her  brow, 
The  white  has  grown  to  marble  now. 

II. 

Yet,  though  the  dangers  round  her  throng, 
And  though  she  trembles,  she  is  strong; 
The  purpose  in  her  soul  is  pure, 
And  she  is  strengthen'd  to  endure. 

III. 

The  worst  is  but  a  moment's  pain, 

Once  felt,  that  ne'er  is  felt  again  ; 

She  may  not  shrink  from  death,  whose  heart 

Is  buried  with  its  dearer  part. 

IV. 

Her  life  was  in  another's  eyes, 
And  in  their  sad  eclipse,  she  dies  j" 
To  all  her  hopes,  the  stroke  that  slew 
Her  lover,  was  most  fatal  too. 

V. 

She  treads  the  bloody  height  once  more, 
Her  feet  are  clammy  with  its  gore, — 
New  anguish  in  her  bosom  thrill'd — 
That  blood  was  from  his  heart  distill'd. 


136  THE  EYE  AND  THE  WING. 


VI. 


And  darker,  gloomier,  grows  the  night, 
Storm  hangs  above  the  fatal  height, — 
The  lightning's  flash,  along  the  skies, 
Shows  where  his  mangled  body  lies. 

VII. 

Alone,  the  threatened  doom  she  braves, 
The  tyrant  only  sways  his  slaves  ; — 
She  hides  in  earth  the  mangled  frame, 
When  warriors  fly,  or  bend  in  shame. 

VIII. 

A  few  short  hours,  and  she  will  be, 
Like  him  she  lived  for,  far  and  free ;  — 
The  tyrant  can  but  slay, — his  blow 
Restores  the  love,  whose  loss  was  woe ! 


VISION  — FROM    JOB. 


'TWAS  in  a  dream,  a  vision  of  the  night, 

When  deep  the  sleep  that  falleth  upon  man, 

I  felt  a  secret  presence,  and  mine  ear 

Drank  in  a  whisper,  which,  with  mortal  dread, 

Sunk  deep  into  my  soul.     My  hair  stood  up  ; 

My  limbs  with  terror  shook  ;  crawl'd  the  cold  flesh, 

And  shrunk  with  abject  fear  the  lordly  heart ! 

Well  knew  I  that  a  spectre  o'er  me  slood  ! — 

A  spirit  pass'd  before  me,  though  mine  eyes 

Saw  nought  but  shadowy  things  without  a  shape, 

That  fill'd  the  vastness. — Silence,  and  a  voice 

Follow'd,  which  spake: — "Shalt  thou,  a  mortal  man, 

Be  purer  than  thy  Maker — juster  than  God  !" 


ALF-SONG.  13T 


ALF-SONG. 


I. 

THE  sunbeam  darting  to  the  stream, 

The  birth  that  glows  in  dying, 
Love's  meeting  hour  and  beauty's  gleam, 

And  raptures  born  when  flying  ; — 
How,  if  we  speed  o'er  summits  fair, 

Just  at  each  fountain  dipping, 
And  pause  to  rest,  in  vallies  rare, 

Their  single  blisses  sipping  ! 

II. 

The  cup  that  flows  for  us  must  take, 

Its  color  from  the  fountain, 
In  whose  embrace  the  blue  skies  wake, 

Still  dreaming  of  the  mountain  ; — 
We  ask  no  better  boon  for  us 

While  yet  the  bead  is  gleaming, 
To  snatch  its  single  blessing  thus, 

Though  all  the  rest  be  seeming. 

III. 

And  still  the  leaf  that  skims  the  lake, 

Shall  satisfy  our  seeking  ; 
And  still  the  bird  note  in  the  brake, 

Be  ample  for  our  speaking  ; — 
And  still  the  dream  at  morning-tide, 

When  April  buds  awaken, 
Shall  welcome  bring,  though  from  our  side, 

The  other  self  be  taken. 

12* 


133  THE  EYE  AND  THE  WING. 


STANZAS. 

SILENT  with  all  her  vassal  stars  as  ever, 

Night  in  the  sky, 
Here,  by  this  dark  and  lonely  Indian  river, 

Scarce  moaning  by  ; — 
Our  spirits  brood  together  in  communion 

Too  deep  for  speech  ; 
Thought  wings  its  way  to  thought,  and  in  their  union 

'Tis  love  they  teach. 

And  yet  how  deep  the  mock  to  this  condition  ! — 

That  dream  of  youth, 
Whose  night  stars  tremble  over  waves  Elysian, 

Whose  day  is  truth — 
Whose  hope,  with  angel  wings,  to  consummation 

Speeds  from  its  birth, 
Whose  joy,  unfettered  as  at  first  creation, 

Bends  heaven  o'er  earth. 

Hast  thou  not  felt  the  cruel  world's  denial, — 

Art  thou  not  here  ; 
Exiled  and  tortured,  ere  thy  soul  had  trial 

Of  hope  or  fear  ; 
Unknown  and  unconsidered,  thy  devotion 

Denied  a  shrine; — 
Methinks,  these  waters  speak  for  thy  emotion, 

And  echo  mine. 

The  love  that  blesses  youth  is  none  of  ours — 

No  smiles,  no  tears — 
A  sky  that  never  moved  the  earth  to  flowers, 

In  earlier  years: — 
But  the  deep  consciousness,  still  speaking  only> 

Of  the  twin-wo, 
That  finds  fit  music  in  these  waters  lonely, 

That  moan  and  go  1 


THE  SPIRIT-LOVER.  139 


BALLAD. 

THE   SPIRIT-LOVER, 

I. 

HARK  !  in  gentle  Emma's  ear, 

Walter  pours  the  well-known  song, 

He  hath  spell'd  her  with  a  tear, 
And  she  sighs  and  listens  long. 

Happy  minstrel,  who  so  well, 

Of  the  young  heart's  pain  can  tell! 

II. 

Still  to  greet  her  minstrel  boy, 
With  the  dawning  eve  she  flies, 

In  her  heart  a  budding  joy 

Speaking  through  her  dewy  eyes  ; 

Cruel  minstrel  !  —  she  would  chide, 

For  he  comes  not  to  her  side. 

III. 

But  the  well-known  music  sounds, 
From  the  lyre  among  the  groves  ; 

Wildly  then  her  bosom  bounds, 
For  it  speaks  of  baffled  loves  ; — 

Speaks  so  mournfully  and  deep, 

That  she  cannot  help  but  weep. 

IV. 

Not  an  earthly  presence  there, 

Where  the  mournful  shadows  glide ; 

Not  a  mortal  voice  in  air, 

Sweetly  breathing  at  her  side  ; 

Chide  him  not,  for  he  is  nigh, 

In  the  spirit  of  that  sigh. 


140  THE  EYE  AND  THE  WING. 

V. 

Death  has  reft  him  from  thy  sight, 
But,  unless  thou  will'st  it  so, 

Never,  from  thy  heart's  delight, 
Shall  his  gentle  spirit  go  ; 

Like  the  streamlet's  far  off  trill, 

Thou  shall  hear  his  music  still. 


FANCY. 


WOULD  you  win  from  fancy  power  1 — 
Woo  her  in  the  witching  hour, 
When  the  drooping  sun  retires, 
And  the  moon  with  softer  fires, 
Soothes  with  dew  the  drooping  flow'r. 

She  is  free  when  evening  closes, 
Fondly  veiling  summer's  roses, 
To  pursue,  with  noiseless  flying, 
As  the  breeze  of  ocean  sighing, 
Seeks  where  zephyr  still  reposes. 

Lo  !  you  trace  her  airy  motion 
In  the  woods  and  o'er  the  ocean, — 
By  the  wing  in  tree-top  whirring, 
By  the  zephyr  sudden  stirring, 
By  the  little  lake's  commotion. 

Earth  grows  fragrant  in  her  power, — 
'Tis  from  her  she  wins  her  dower  ; 
Sigh  for  sunset,  gleam  for  alley, 
Flush  for  grove  and  voice  for  valley, 
Scent  for  sun,  and  beam  for  flower. 


BILLOWS.  141 


BILLOWS. 

jg 

GENTLY,  with  sweet  commotion, 

Sweeping  the  shore, 
Billows  that  break  from  ocean, 

Rush  to  our  feet ; 
Slaves,  that,  with  fond  devotion, 

Prone  to  adore, 
Seek  not  to  stint  with  measure, 

Service  that's  meet ;  — 
Bearing  their  liquid  treasure, 

Flinging  it  round, 
Shouting,  the  while,  the  pleasure 

True  service  knows, 
Then,  as  if  bless'd  with  leisure, 

Flung  on  the  yellow  ground 
Taking  repose  ! 


GLEAMS. 


A  SONG. 


PHANTOMS,  late  caressing, 

Whither,  in  your  flight, 
Do  ye  bear  the  blessing 

That  was  my  delight1? 
Why,  at  midnight  greeting, 

Promise  ye  so  fair, 
And,  with  morning  fleeting, 

Lose  my  hopes  in  air  ? — 

Phantoms,  O  !  whither, 

Whither  do  ye  veer  ] 


142  THE  EYE  AND  THE  WING. 

If  the  night  still  brings  ye, 

Let  me  not  deplore, 
That  the  dawning  wings  ye 

To  some  other  shore  ; 
Yet  the  doubt  distresses, 

That  your  arms  may  find, 
Forms,  whose  dear  caresses, 

May  more  surely  bind. 

Phantoms,  O  !  whither, 

Wing  ye  with  the  wind  1 


MEMORY. 


THERE  is  a  moonlight  in  the  heart, 

A  lonely,  sad  expanse  of  light ; 
Cold  as  the  meteors  that  impart, 

Strange  lustre  to  the  wintry  night : 
A.  vacant  being,  which  though  lit, 

By  gleams  that  haunt  it  from  the  sky, 
Still  feels  cold  phantoms  o'er  it  flit, 

The  shapes  of  those  who  should  not  die. 

These  are  the  memories  of  the  past, 
Gray  watchers  on  the  waste  of  years, 

Shadows  of  hopes  that  could  not  last, 

.  And  loves,  forever  born  in  tears. 

The  mellowed  music  that  they  bring, 
Falls  sweet  but  sad  upon  the  heart, — 

Around  whose  brink  they  sit  and  sing, 
Of  death, — and  will  not  thence  depart. 


METEOR  AT  SEA.  143 


METEOR  AT   SEA. 

A  LINE  of  rosy  light,  as  if  a  flower, 

Flung  by  a  spirit  of  beauty  through  the  skyt 

A  boon  to  some  beloved  one,  for  a  dower, 
Henceforth  the  hope  and  aim  of  every  eye  ! 

How  lighten  the  blue  chambers,  while  the  breeze 
Subsides  to  homage  ;  and  the  envious  stars, 

Envious,  but  dazzled,  shrinking  from  the  blaze, 
Crouch  in  the  shadows  of  their  twiring  cars. 

'Tis  as  some  gontle  spirit  sped  through  air, 
Sent  on  benevolent  mission  : — soft  the  light, 
Yet  rosy, — and  the  waters  leap  outright, 

Catching  the  smile,  and  looking  all  so  fair, 
As  if  no  tempest  lurked  within  their  caves, 
And  ghastliest  terrors  ne'er  had  walk'd  their 
shining  waves ! 


DREAMLAND. 

ONE  might  sleep  ever  in  such  dear  delight, 
Thus  dreaming  of  Elysium — of  bright  eyes, 
Still  glimpsing,  with  an  ever-sweet  surprise, 

Beneath  the  lids  that  open  for  the  light, 

Yet  close  again  with  rapture  that  it  brings  ! 

Oh  !  the  most  precious  of  a  thousand  things, 

Thus  to  accumulate  the  various. bliss 

That  comes  with  such  dear  'tendance  ;    and,  with  this, 

To  know  the  treasure,  o'er  all  earthly  price, 
Is  still  beyond  all  purchase,  save  of  faith, — 

That  quits  the  giver  with  his  own  device, 
And  finds  self's  better  profit  in  its  death. 

Each  generous  gift  of  love  to  kindred  worth, 

Calls  thousand  worshipping  spirits  into  birth. 


144  THE  EYE  AND  THE  WING. 

- 


SONNET.  — THE    FAIRY   RING. 


METHINKS,  young  shepherd,  you  have  dream'd  all  this  ! — 
Our  fancies  are  most  frolicksome,  and  oft, 
They  bear  the  thought,  on  erring  wing  aloft, 
Where  'scaped  from  reason,  it  is  lost  in  bliss. 
Beshrew  me,  but  it  is  a  pleasant  spot, 
For  fairies  to  make  merry  on,  until 
The  steeple's  clock,  from  yonder  gray-brow'd  hill, 
Doth  warn  from  their  vagrant  sports,  I  wot ! 
Yet,  till  the  dawning  they  may  brush  the  dew.  .. 

And,  it  may  be,  methinks,  in  daylight  too, 
Albeit  we  see  them  not : — The  glare  of  day, 
May  take,  perchance,  their  feebler  fires  away, 
As  the  stars  fade  when  the  full  moon  is  fair ; — 
And  yet  we  know  they  still  walk  shining  there. 


THE  END. 


14  DAY  USE 

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